


Through a Glass Darkly

by ziggy



Category: The Lord of the Rings (Movies), The Lord of the Rings - All Media Types, The Lord of the Rings - J. R. R. Tolkien
Genre: Gen, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-07-20
Updated: 2016-04-03
Packaged: 2018-02-09 15:23:59
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 24
Words: 142,651
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1987971
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ziggy/pseuds/ziggy
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>In the aftermath of Legolas' poisoning in Phellanthir, Glorfindel and Erestor travel back to discover the deepest secret at the heart of the ruined city of Celebrimbor. There they find secrets of their hearts as well as of the past.</p><p>Warnings for slash in this chapter. Especially for those who begged to know what was between Glorfindel and Thranduil</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

Author’s Note: This story is a continuation of More Dangerous, Less Wise, told from the perspective of Glorfindel and Erestor as we learn what happens to them in their mission to Phellanthir. The first part of this story picks up herewith Chapter 21 of MDLW and goes on from there.

Synopsis: In clearing the passage for the paths to be taken by the Fellowship, a party of warriors, led by Glorfindel, has encountered strange happenings in the long ruined city of Phellanthir. Legolas, injured in an attack, fears one of their lost comrades has had his spirit (his fëa) torn away and that the soul of the dead warrior is lost in Phellanthir. Erestor and Glorfindel decide it is their duty to go and investigate.

Beta: Anarithilen- still hanging in there, bless her!

Warnings: Bound to be slash in here somewhere at sometime. So just be aware, I love writing slash. 

 

Chapter 1: Old Partings and New Returns

The plan for Erestor and Glorfindel to return to Phellanthir did not go down well with either Aragorn or Legolas of course. Annael and Saeldir were much too polite to protest but there were quizzical looks between them and raised eyebrows as they went about their business of clearing the camp, feeding the horses and tacking up. 

‘I am coming with you,’ Legolas said immediately, half rising but he was still too weak from the poison and the anti-venom which had left him shaken and exhausted, and Erestor easily pressed him back down to his bed.

‘Foolish child. You will be no help whatsoever like this,’ he said and though the words were hard, Glorfindel saw that a smile touched Erestor’s lips and his tone was kind. ‘You must go back to Imladris and get well. Do you think this is your task? It is not.’ He crouched beside Legolas then and pulled the Woodelf’s resistant face towards him, looking into his eyes. ‘You have another task I see. It will redeem you thoroughly. Do not fear so.’ 

Erestor leaned forward and to Legolas’ surprise, but not horror by any means, Glorfindel noted disapprovingly, kissed him full on the lips. Not a quick peck either. Then Erestor pushed the hair back from Legolas’ face and smiled. ‘You are a sweet child. Just what they need.’ He nodded to himself at something only he knew and Glorfindel wondered what in all of Arda it must have been like with Erestor adding to the heady mix of Fëanorian brothers, cousins and mad hangers-on. 

Glorfindel noticed too that Aragorn raised an eyebrow at Erestor’s kiss and when the tall counselor rose to his feet and looked at Aragorn, the Man took a nervous step back ‘No silly ideas from you either,’ Erestor said, but he was much sterner with Aragorn. ‘You are going back too. Annael and Saeldir will keep an eye on you. Elrond has need of you,’ he said emphatically, and then added smoothly, ‘And Arwen.’

‘You cannot go on your own! Glorfindel...’ Aragorn began to appeal but Glorfindel held up his hand and shook his head.

‘No. I am in agreement with Erestor this time. You are needed at home. You have much to do and this is not your task either.’ He wondered even if it were truly his task, or Erestor’s, but he could no more bear to leave one of his men to rot in Phellanthir, fëa or not, than he could have run from the Balrog to save his own skin. He swung his pack over Asfaloth’s withers, glad to have another friend and weapon should he need it. And he knew Erestor was subtle in ways that Glorfindel was not. He had cunning and secret craft.

They led Erestor’s horse, the inaptly named Niphredil, and Asfaloth up the slope to the top of the ridge and there they mounted. Niphredil laid his ears back and snapped at Asfaloth, who swished his tail but otherwise ignored him. Glorfindel thought perhaps he ought to do the same with Erestor when he snapped and jibed.

Then they took their farewells and left the three Elves and Aragorn standing watching them, Legolas leaning on Aragorn for support and Annael and Saeldir, he was sure, trying to forget what they had heard from Erestor about the way they had found Aragorn atop the youngest son of Thranduil.

The ground was hard from the frost but the sun was out and the snow was melting. The old road that once led to Ost-in-Edhil and Moria and Tharbad was nothing now but crumbling remains of the causeways with the paving broken up and scattered about. At times there was a wide track that ran alongside it worn by those merchants and traders still hardy enough to trade between the Northern regions and Rohan, Gondor and the East. They had to pick their way over the river at one point, for the bridge was broken and the ford deep and treacherous. But their sure-footed steeds were steady in the pulling current and they emerged sleek and wet, though also cold. Erestor urged Niphredil into a long gallop then to warm them all up. 

But the air was cold and fresh, and Glorfindel’s face tingled with it. By afternoon they had covered many leagues and now they were walking, to rest the horses, for even Niphredil had tired a little. Asfaloth stopped abruptly to rub his nose on his foreleg and Glorfindel sat easily, waiting for him to finish. They would make camp soon, somewhere near the river even though they were only one or two days maybe from Phellanthir. He watched the ridge above him, carefully scanning it for movement. Nothing. The thin line of trees, birch saplings, were bare of leaves and their silver bark gleamed. Here the snow was a thin layer, more frost than snow and it laced the boulders of the cold grey river. Above them, loomed the Misty Mountains. 

Towards dusk they made camp and Glorfindel managed, after both he and Erestor had missed several times, to shoot a rabbit. He thought wryly that Legolas would have wasted fewer arrows and bagged more. Now he crouched by the stream while Asfaloth drank. He quickly, efficiently skinned the rabbit. Erestor scouted the area for Orcs, Wargs and Dwarves, as he said with a scary grin, and to be honest, both needed a moment away from the other. Erestor swore as if he delighted in finding the most blasphemous oaths he could think of and Glorfindel, always a soldier and no delicate flower himself, found himself wanting to cover his ears at times. Erestor even swore in the Black Speech. 

Tutting to himself, Glorfindel washed the rabbit’s blood from his hands, watching the blood slowly wash away in the cold melt-water, noticing the grey-blue pebbles and flat stones of the stream and thinking how Gimli would have lifted one from the water to consider, and comment on its size and type, carefully cataloguing its use and its source. He shook his hands and then wiped them on his cloak, thinking that he liked the Dwarf, unexpectedly. His generosity towards Legolas had surprised Glorfindel, who had fond memories of the Khazad from the old days. When they had pinned Legolas down and were forcing sere-vanda and Crystôl into him, it was Gimli who had stopped them, and it was Gimli who had soothed Legolas and asked him what he could do. Glorfindel was ashamed of himself now for having allowed that abuse, and he vowed to make it up to the Woodelf on his return. 

He had been touched too, by Legolas’ quiet admission of the previous night, that he had been unable to make the Merciful Cut for his comrade, that he had vowed to tell Glorfindel of his valiant friend...although Glorfindel could not now remember the boy’s name. And I must, he told himself. I must make sure I remember them all.

The sky was still grey but the clouds were higher and snow seemed a long way from here. Above him the mountains loomed and he looked south as far as he could and could just see the peaks of far Caradhras and Celebdil. The sun shone on their snowy peaks so they seemed gilded. 

It seemed a luxury to have this time, these precious moments of quiet when the whirlwind and storm were about to break upon them and he took the time to strip his tunic and shirt from his back, hanging them carefully on a low hanging branch. He waded into the water and dipped himself in briefly for it was cold even to Glorfindel. But he found himself thinking again of Legolas, dwelling upon the strange markings on his well-muscled torso that was surprising on one so apparently light and lithe. I am getting giddy, he thought to himself in disgust, to be dwelling upon some young warrior from Mirkwood! But he knew that it was not Legolas that he saw in his mind’s eye. No, not just some young warrior, he admitted finally to himself. Thranduil’s son. 

It was a long time since he had last thought of Thranduil...

He waded out of the river, letting the water stream from his body and with them, he let those thoughts wash away. Pointless. Wasted.

On the river bank opposite a young stag wandered, nosed about in the thin snow and then pawed it up for the grass beneath. Suddenly it was startled and leaped away. Glorfindel dropped to the ground, cursing under his breath for a moment’s inattentiveness. But then an eagle cried far above and circled and he saw that the deer had been frightened by the bird. 

Glorfindel settled the horses, ignoring Niphredil’s flat-back ears and flattened nostrils, and dug a small fire pit, built a fire and began cooking the unfortunate rabbit. Glorfindel thought that the greater skill of Legolas’ shooting would have yielded them more, and the greater skill of Amron’s cooking would have made it tastier. But it was edible. He tasted it lightly and added a little salt from the pouch Erestor had left with him. 

However by the time Erestor returned, the rabbit was overdone and Glorfindel had already eaten his share. He had stripped the meat from the bones and thrown the carcass far from the camp so the foxes could eat and they would not be disturbed in the night. But Ithil was high by the time he heard a cheery whistle and Erestor came striding towards him.

‘Where have you been?’ He winced at the irritation in his own voice. ‘I was wondering if I would have to come and find you.’

Erestor gave him an enormously wide smile and plonked himself gracelessly down next to the fire. He reached out and pulled the shredded meat towards himself, tore off a hunk of bread and flipped open the wine flask in his saddlebag. He took a great long gulp before he finally lifted it and smacked his lips showily, shoved it towards Glorfindel and then devoured the meat hungrily. When he raised his face again to Glorfindel, there was grease around his mouth and wine stains on his lips. 

‘You are as bad as Legolas,’ Glorfindel observed. ‘He too has the manners of an Orc.’

Erestor smiled delightedly. ‘Really? I am pleased to hear it. There are too many tales that Woodelves nibble delicately on nuts and fruit, don’t eat meat and sip wine. I have never been able to reconcile that with what I know of Thranduil. And certainly not Oropher!’

Glorfindel waited patiently whilst Erestor ate his fill and carelessly tossed a thigh bone into the bushes behind the camp, followed with an apple and threw the core in the other direction. Eventually he leaned back on one elbow, and stretched out his long legs. Glorfindel quashed his irritation because he knew Erestor would enjoy that and instead said as mildly as he could, ‘Well?’ and then, because he knew Erestor would tease, he said, ‘Where have you been and what have you been doing?’ so he tied Erestor down to proper answers and not wordplay.

‘I went to look at the Tower,’ Erestor replied and Glorfindel swallowed a gasp; he was back, he was safe. He did not need to protest, it was too late anyway. 

Erestor narrowed one eye and looked appraisingly at Glorfindel. ‘You are very sanguine,’ he observed. Then he said, ‘It is yet many leagues and I merely saw it in the far distance but even then it reeks of Nazgûl. It may have even been a refuge for them, an easy place to ride out from in their hunt for the One. Darkness swathes it. I am sure Legolas is...well, maybe not completely right in that Rhawion’s fëa is trapped there...but it is an evil place.’

Glorfindel looked away. If Rhawion was trapped there, it was his fault; he had been so anxious and determined to get them all away as quickly as possible. He had given no thought to what Legolas had claimed, merely dismissed it as a delusion. He should have gone back...

‘I hope you are not indulging in recrimination.‘ Erestor interrupted his thoughts and Glorfindel wondered how in the Heavens he had guessed. He glanced up with a wry smile.

‘How did you know?’

‘My dear Laurëfindë, how could you not? You are one of the most conscientious and honourable people I have ever known. Certainly the most honourable person in the…what are we now? The Third Age?’ There was humour in his eyes as he added, ‘You cannot of course equal Maedhros and Maglor whose integrity stands above anyone’s. Ever,’ he said with a trace of defiance that had never quite been quelled. ‘But all those others, you easily outmatch.’

Glorfindel felt vaguely and bewilderingly flattered. He was never quite comfortable with the Fëanorian references with which Erestor liked to smatter his conversations; it was as if he wanted to brandish his old loyalties in the faces of those whose kin they had slaughtered and betrayed, as if he never wanted to let anyone forget them. It left Glorfindel with the same old confused admiration and loathing for them that he had always had. But saying something would merely give Erestor something to spar with so he said nothing. 

‘I suggest we do not go into the Tower in the darkness,’ Erestor continued unnecessarily, for Glorfindel had no intention of doing that, pulling his blanket over his shoulder and settling down to rest. ‘Will you take the first watch?’

‘It seems I already am,’ Glorfindel commented drily as Erestor grinned at him and wriggled until he was comfortable.

Briefly Glorfindel wondered what Erestor dreamed for he was asleep so quickly and he did not move all through Glorfindel’s watch and had a pleased smile on his face throughout.

When it came to Erestor’s watch, Glorfindel did not rest so well; his own thoughts drifted constantly to Gondolin, and took him on the secret paths to the Cristhorn*, where there awaited him Shadow and Flame...He slept fitfully and whenever he awoke he saw in the firelight Erestor staring at a knife he held between his fingers, carefully as if its bite were to be feared.

At last he sat up, no longer trying to find a pleasant dream. He pushed his long hair out of his eyes and blinked. Erestor was sitting, leaning back against a tree, his amber eyes watched Glorfindel thoughtfully and the knife he held, Glorfindel realised, was unfamiliar. For some reason, Glorfindel shivered.

‘I wondered what you dreamed,’ Erestor said, slanting his eyes at Glorfindel. ‘Was it the Valarauko*’

Only Erestor would dare intrude so, thought Glorfindel, but he nodded anyway. There was no point hiding anything. 

‘Does it plague you often?’

‘No,’ Glorfindel said shortly, hoping that would finish the conversation, but he should have known better.

‘I remember, at the Pass of Aglon,’ Erestor said conversationally. ‘Glaurung* roaring across the plains. It was enough to make me piss myself...in fact I even think I did. But there were Valarauki and Orcs and ... other things I cannot name even now.’ Erestor yawned, as if such things were a common occurrence. ‘Of course by that time I was well used to Orcs and Balrogs, but not the dragons. I never got used to the quiet before they struck.’

Glorfindel knew what he meant. There had been no warning in Gondolin. It had been such a still day, sun warm on the stone. Water splashing in the fountains. There were fountains in every square, on every corner in Gondolin. He stopped himself from remembering because Erestor was watching him sharply, and instead he casually threw more kindling onto the fire.

‘I think of that day on Aglon,’ Erestor continued, watching the kindling catch and burn. ‘I almost ran. Only Maedhros kept us onwards by his will alone. He was invincible that day, burning with such hate and fury they dared not meet him and we dared not leave him.’ Erestor’s lips curved in a smile and he looked down at the dagger he held lightly between his fingers. ‘You know, I think he would have fought his way to Morgoth with his bare hands and alone. But I like to think that he had learned from Fingolfin’s folly.’

‘And Fëanor’s too,’ Glorfindel bit back. He did not ask if Erestor had also pissed himself at Doriath, or Sirion for he caught a sly smile on Erestor’s face and would be goaded no further. It seemed Erestor’s undeclared ambition was to well and truly rile Glorfindel though Glorfindel would not give in. So he took a deep breath and forced himself to calm. ‘The Past seems to have caught us both in its web,’ he said instead, knowing his calm would irritate Erestor even more than Erestor irritated him. ‘And it is intruding too much on the present,‘ he finished. 

It seemed that Erestor realised he would get no more from Glorfindel too for he was silent for a moment, turning the dagger this way and that, looking at it carefully. It did not catch the light. ‘I too worry that Curumo* knows too much of our defence, our strength, he said thoughtfully. ‘He knows Ash Nazg is in Imladris surely?’

Glorfindel frowned. ‘He was in all our council.’ He leaned slightly forwards to look at the knife; it was not the one Erestor usually carried, he mused. Suddenly he was very cold, all thoughts of Saruman forgotten for he recognised the nature of the blade. ‘You have brought that with you?’ he asked. He could not keep the outrage from his voice.

Erestor looked up. He held the knife carefully between his fingers, but he did not twirl it between his fingers as he normally did. ‘Elrond thought I should for some reason. Only now is it becoming clear,’ he said thoughtfully.

Glorfindel snorted in disgust. ‘You will forgive me if I do not believe you?’ he said coldly. ‘For I cannot imagine in any circumstance that you should carry a Morgul blade!’

Erestor smiled then, and for the first time ever in their long acquaintance, Glorfindel thought the tales could be true about Erestor. ‘Which is it? That you do not believe Elrond told me to bring it or that it is becoming clear why I have brought it?’ he asked and his thin lips curled upwards in a typical sardonic smile.

‘Both,’ Glorfindel said flatly. “It is not in the least beyond you, Erestor, to take it upon yourself to steal it, and it is not beyond your arrogance to believe that you can wield it.’

Anyone else would have protested but Erestor put his hand on his heart and bowed his head slightly. ‘You flatter me,’ was all he said. 

‘That is not even the one wielded by Angmar. Aragorn only brought the hilt,’ he said even more angry now. ‘Where is this one from?’ He was outraged. 

‘Oh, I think this must be the one Radagast brought from Dol Guldûr.’ Erestor was nonchalant but his eyes gleamed. ‘You remember when the White Council was finally persuaded to act? It was because they had proof. Finally.’ Glorfindel remembered it well, for it was the day that Saruman had finally agreed that the White Council had cause to fear the Necromancer.

‘Elrond or someone must have dropped it,’ Erestor said, firelight glinting in his eyes. ‘And I did not want Curumo to have it.’

 

0o0o

 

Even while they rode the next day, Glorfindel could think of little else but the Morgul blade and he kept glancing towards Erestor. It was lunacy to even touch it, designed as it was to shear the fëa from the hroa. What in Manwë’s name did Erestor think he was doing?

‘I wish you had not brought that thing,’ he said mildly, knowing better than to ask more for Erestor would delight in being evasive or giving outrageous answers than merely sought to goad Glorfindel into fury. ‘It only needs the slightest nick for you to become houseless.’

Erestor gave him a strange, oblique glance that he could not read but it felt knowing, subtle as Erestor always was.

‘You know something more,’ Glorfindel said irritably. ‘And I suppose you have no intention of sharing that knowledge.’

Erestor did not answer for at that moment, Asfaloth snorted and shied at a deer that leapt suddenly from the scrubby trees and Niphredil too shied violently, almost throwing Erestor and all thoughts of the Morgul blade fled.

‘Elbereth’s tits!’ Erestor swore and Glorfindel shook his head in disapproval. ‘Fucking deer! You’d think it would avoid us, not throw itself at us.’ 

Glorfindel slowed Asfaloth cautiously. Erestor was right; that deer had been fleeing something. He brought Asfaloth to a halt and listened. Last time he was here, Orcs had been lurking and he had not known until it was too late; it had cost him dearly, losing Rhawion and almost losing Legolas to the lhach-rhaw. And despite his irritating nature, he did not want to lose Erestor.

He glanced over to his companion and saw that Niphredil was busily, greedily cropping the short grass and Erestor was nowhere to be seen. 

‘Moringhotto Bauglir!’ Glorfindel swore himself now and urged Asfaloth beneath the branches of the trees and into cover. He slid down from the horse and drew his sword, crouching and searching the trees anxiously. Niphredil raised his head briefly and gave Glorfindel a brief, condescending look and then let his head fall back to the grass again. Glorfindel stilled himself, opened himself up to listen, to feel…

A breath on his neck made him jerk around and he came face to face with Erestor who was suddenly right behind him as if he had simply materialized. ’Nothing to be afraid of,’ Erestor said with irritating jauntiness and tapped Glorfindel’s sword disrespectfully. ‘Just a spooked deer – probably your clumsy great horse crashing around. Best put that away before you cut yourself.’

Glorfindel seethed but he was determined not to show it and forced himself to smile thinly. ‘I suppose, it is good that the Nazgûl have not got you...yet.’ He jammed his foot into the stirrup and swung astride Asfaloth once more, wishing it had been anyone but Erestor who had joined him on this trip.

But who else remembers fair Gondolin…

The thought was so clear in his head that he looked up at Erestor to reply. But Erestor was already ahead of him, and his horse was taking long, easy strides along the narrowing trail. He did not glance back.

But Glorfindel wished that Legolas had been with them, for his senses were attuned to his environment in a way that the Noldor were not and Glorfindel had a nagging sense that the deer had been frightened by something.

They covered the miles more quickly then and soon the ruined tower raised itself like a fang above the tree line and Erestor paused and waited for Glorfindel. They did not speak but Glorfindel felt the overwhelming sadness for what had been lost; Ost-in-Edhel had been a beautiful city and Phellanthir no less fair. Not Gondolin of course, but it had indeed been full of fountains and tall, elegant spires. And Celebrimbor was nothing like his mad and dangerous kin. Indeed Glorfindel had thought him most un-Fëanorian in anything but his striking looks…until he had allowed Annatar in. That too, was un-Fëanorian for not one of the sons of Fëanor would have been so beguiled. Least of all Maedhros whom he most resembled.

He glanced at Erestor, thinking how he would mourn, for he had not seen Phellanthir since its last days; he had almost deliberately avoided the ruined Elven cities, hardly surprisingly. Erestor had known those cities well, had rubbed shoulders with the greatest in these cities, had been close to Celebrimbor …and could not bear the thought of his dreadful, tortured death. He wondered what Erestor saw now as they looked upon the haunted and ruined tower, and felt a squeeze of sorrow in his heart.

A mist lay across the water margins and fens that surrounded the old Elven city where once elegant ships had rested on smooth water that had been like silver-blue silk for the harbor was so skillfully engineered. That harbour wall was only evident now in the huge chunks of masonry and granite blocks that lay half submerged in the shallow marshes. An old anchor lay on its side in mud and silt, crumbling with rust. Somewhere a curlew cried and its haunting loneliness made the hairs stand up on Glorfindel’s neck. His hand fell to the pommel of this sword instinctively and he thought again of the spooked deer.

Erestor was already sliding from his tall black horse and unbuckling the girth of the saddle.

He glanced back at Glorfindel. ‘I am not taking Niphredil into that place. It will upset him.’ The said horse snapped at Erestor and flattened his ears ungratefully but Glorfindel paused. He did not like to leave Asfaloth out of here in the environs of Phellanthir but he accepted too that the ruined city was no place for horses.

In the thin winter sunlight this was a strange and haunted place. Glorfindel had thought that when he had stood with Legolas, was it really only days before? And Rhawion had still lived. He felt a cinching in his chest, a tightness that had nothing to do with the still, cold air that settled around them like freezing. Asfaloth’s head was right up and his ears forward and Glorfindel saw that Erestor’s bad-natured horse had done the same. 

Suddenly Niphredil shook his head and started, swinging his hind quarters around and almost trampling upon Erestor. Both horses backed nervously and even Asfaloth pulled away a little.

‘Very well,’ Glorfindel said soothingly to Asfaloth. ‘Run free for a while and listen for me. Come when I need you.’

He pulled the saddle from his horse and lay it carefully behind a fallen tree, covered it with ivy and ferns. Asfaloth dipped his head for the bridle to be removed and gave him an affectionate and concerned bump with his nose. Glorfindel rubbed his forehead reassuringly. ‘Go, find grass and water and keep away from that bad tempered nag!’ he murmured. 

‘Stay close to Asfaloth,’ Glorfindel heard Erestor say to his grumpy beast. ‘And come back this time. Don’t just go home.’ Niphredil shook his head and waggled his ears back and forth. His nostrils wrinkled and he flattened his ears back and snapped at his rider. Erestor laughed delightedly and rubbed his nose. ‘Go on, my sweet thing. Off you go.’ He dumped his saddle and threw the bridle carelessly next to Glorfindel’s but at least it was hidden that way, thought Glorfindel. 

The ‘sweet thing’ had already turned its back on the two Elves and was charging off, kicking up mud which splattered over Glorfindel’s cloak. He closed his eyes and counted slowly, trying not to lose his legendary calm. When he opened his eyes he just caught the edge of Erestor’s sly smile and had to clench his fists then so as not to bite. It was what Erestor wanted and he would not oblige.

‘I think we should explore the tower now and then retreat when night falls,’ Glorfindel said, brushing his cloak clean. He kept his face impassive, calm and began to count to one hundred as he had heard Gimli do when Legolas irritated him. 

Since the seismic falling of the Tower last time he had been there, the broken road had all but dissolved into the marsh and looked more like an old causeway than ever. The citadel was all that was left and that was merely a rocky outcrop amongst the desolate marshes now, and the Tower that had once surveyed the reaches of Eregion had been ripped apart by the storm was more like a crag. The recent past made it even more haunted and desolate. And Glorfindel felt a sudden foreboding.

He clasped Erestor’s shoulder. ‘Do not enter the Tower, Erestor. There is very much evil that will befall us should we enter.’

Erestor turned his amber eyes towards Glorfindel and it seemed that were filled with light, like he had beheld some great wonder and Glorfindel stared. 

‘Do you forget Rhawion then?’ the Fëanorian replied and he turned back and strode ahead of Glorfindel, the dimming light shining on his black hair.

Glorfindel dipped his gaze and closed his eyes; he had, for a moment of breathless fear, indeed forgotten. But he would no sooner leave Rhawion in this terrible haunted place than have turned his back on the Balrog and fled.

He followed Erestor and the two Elves entered the broken gates of Phellanthir.

0o0o0o

 

Cristhorn – Where Glorfindel fought the Balrog and defeated it, but met his own death

Valarauko – Quenya for Balrog

Glaurung – the greatest dragon of all- destroyed Gondolin.

Curumo – Saruman


	2. The Citadel

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Thank you to reviewers and those leaving kudos.
> 
> Beta; the incomparable Anarithilien.

Chapter 2: The Citadel

 

The city was even more ruined after the seismic storm the night Rhawion died. The rumbling earth had dislodged great chunks of granite walls that had fallen and smashed into what were once narrow streets below, crumbling into scree and clitter, which they had to clamber over or turn back. There was light snow on the iron-cold rocks and the air had turned bitterly chill.

Great coils of dark ivy, frosted with the cold of winter, looped over ruined archways. It smothered old doorways so they looked like eye sockets watching the two elves as they passed. Glorfindel was unafraid but even he felt a sinister watchfulness about the place. It was desolate. Abandoned. Not even rooks cawing in the ruined towers or even the tracks of deer stepping quietly along narrow frosted paths. Nothing came here now but the Nazgûl and Glorfindel did not know what drew them hence.

Above them was the Tower, brooding and malicious and he kept glancing upwards

…A great winged dragon soared, flame burst from its open maw and blasted stone to rubble, melted the bejeweled heights…

No! He shook himself. This was not Gondolin. This was not Maeglin’s treachery but Annatar’s betrayal of Celebrimbor. Dragons did not belong in this life. *

Erestor led him unerringly along narrow stone paths that wound between huge boulders and scree that piled up hard against the old citadel wall. Ravens no longer nested amongst the crags that had once been battlements. One huge and ancient holly tree had fallen across an old doorway and its glossy leaves proved a more impenetrable defence than any stone.

‘This is the great door to the citadel.’ Erestor wrapped his cloak around him to protect him from the dense prickles. ‘You would almost think the tree has fallen across deliberately to prevent anyone going in,’ he grumbled. But they had no Woodelf with them to tell them if this were true and he pushed through the first thick branches and pulled the hood down over his face to protect him a little from the sharp leaves.

There was nothing further to bar their way for any defences had long ago been breached by Sauron’s treachery and they found themselves in a long tunnel that went beneath the citadel wall. It was very cold and the tunnel stretched away into darkness that echoed their footsteps back to them.

Glorfindel paused for a moment, listening; he felt his chest tighten, and in spite of the cold the air was too still and the sense of being watched too strong.

Erestor turned his strange amber eyes upon Glorfindel. They glittered in the dark like some unseen light reflected in them. ‘Not scared, surely, my Laurëlindë? All that is here are ghosts.’

 

Glorfindel clenched his teeth and began counting backwards from one hundred, very slowly. It was something he had noticed Gimli did when Legolas was being particularly irritating. It was beginning to lose its potency however and Glorfindel found himself having to count for longer and longer. It was taking him to fifty now.

‘The Nazgûl are not just ghosts,’ he snapped. ‘And they are not the only danger. We are here alone. In the Wild and very far from home.’

He saw a flash of white that could have been Erestor’s teeth and he gritted his own and followed Erestor into the suffocating dark. A cold wind blew lightly through the tunnel but it was ice and in spite of his own fearlessness, the hairs on Glorfindel’s neck slowly stood on end. 

‘There is more here than ghosts,’ he said slowly. ‘Nazgûl or other.’

“Come,’ said Erestor and there was a touch of nostalgia in his voice. He beckoned Glorfindel on. ‘It is the resonance of Power you feel. Although this was the third city of Eregion and Ost-in-Edhel greater by far, this was still a lovely place once. The centre of learning in the West.’

Erestor walked on slowly. ’This tunnel was once lit with dimmed Fëanorian lamps made of green malachite.’ he continued. ‘It was like walking in a dense wood lit from outside by sunlight. Celebrimbor designed so you walked in the deepness of the woods, like the Unbegotten and then emerged into light of knowledge, of the Noldor. He wanted it to be a little like Menegroth.’ He looked around but the dark pressed upon them, and Glorfindel wondered whether he should be more outraged at a Fëanorian wishing to re-create an aspect of Menegroth or Erestor’s winsome memory of it*. 

Something fluttered against Glorfindel’s hair and he thought it was a bat. He felt it brush again though and it was too slow, too light for a bat. 

‘A moth?’ Erestor said wonderingly. ‘Surely it is too dark and too cold for you, little friend?’ The moth fluttered around them for a moment, perhaps drawn by the warmth and light of the elves for it was bitterly cold and utterly dark in the tunnel but Erestor drew Glorfindel onwards. Ahead of them was thin grey light that grew as they approached, and Glorfindel could see that there were indeed cavities scored in the sides of the tunnel walls where had been the bronze and copper torches holding those green Fëanorian lamps, long since plundered. 

They emerged into a wide cavernous hall. Thin light slanted from cracks in the granite above, rough like cracks formed in the igneous rock and thick ivy crept like dark fingers between the cracks and for a moment Glorfindel imagined that they were pulling the cracks further apart, slowly tearing down the last ruins of a once great city. But Glorfindel knew it was the tower itself that had cracked apart, if not under the dreadful siege of Sauron upon Phellanthir all those centuries ago, then from the terrible storm drawn down by the Nazgûl when he had fled with Legolas and Rhawion. In the thin light, everything was grey, cloaked in thick dust like veils.

Erestor turned to Glorfindel conversationally. Almost as if he had heard Glorfindel’s thoughts, and perhaps he had, thought Glorfindel.

‘Those are not cracks. They were huge slanting shafts cut into the stone. Celebrimbor had returned from Moria and seen Khazad-dûm. He could not stop talking about it. When he had this hall built, the light poured in and reflected in hundreds, maybe thousands of crystals and precious gems, molten and swirled through mithril and silver. The floor itself is crystal…’ He paused for a moment. ‘Or was.’ 

He sighed and turned his face upwards to the cold light. ‘You have no idea how it felt standing here. A temple of light. He spent years designing lamps to rival and outshine Narvi’s.’ Glorfindel looked up at the cracked stone roof. He could see now that it had been crafted; it was too smooth to be natural. ‘They enjoyed the competition,’ Erestor continued and Glorfindel realised he spoke still of Narvi and Celebrimbor. 

Erestor paused beneath the great domed roof, looking upwards and Glorfindel walked slowly behind him…He saw the great hall as it had been 

……And the graceful pillars that held the smooth vaulted roof were inlaid with the richest colour and he saw that they were precious stones that were molten and somehow swirled and traced into the crystal…Huge Fëanorian lamps of silver chased with mithril set with sapphires hung from the domed ceiling and the light poured into the chamber through the lamps onto the crystal floor. Beneath his feet was smooth crystal so it did indeed feel like he was walking on light, floating in starlight…

I have not seen this, Glorfindel thought bemused. And he knew it was Erestor’s memory.

…The great chamber filled with golden light and jewels glowing in the light. Upon the walls were great silk hangings and richly worked tapestries showing the great works of the Noldor smiths. He knew that these silks and tapestries and wonderful carpets had been brought as gifts from the kings and potentates of the furthest Eastern kingdoms.

Erestor’s voice was distant. ‘It was a wonderful sight. And the smells…fragrances in the air were beyond imagining. Those were the Silk Halls.’ He waved his hand towards a distant wall and Glorfindel realised that there were a number of smaller chambers leading off from this main one. ‘You could get little ivory pieces, carved exquisitely. They would make you Strategy pieces if you had enough gold. I got a set for Elrond here…think he still has most of them.’ 

Glorfindel knew the set he meant; it was made of strange animals instead of the Valar and one piece was missing, a mumâk.

‘It was so much more exciting here in Eregion than Mithlond,’ Erestor continued. ‘I actually thought about quitting Gil-Galad’s service and pledging myself to Celebrimbor, not that he wanted me really- but perhaps he needed me.’ He stepped carefully through the thick dust as he walked slowly through the huge empty hall. His voice did not echo for the dust muffled sound.

‘I tried to persuade Elrond to come south,’ he said conversationally as if they were sitting on the terraces of Imladris rather than treading on the edge of danger. ‘’There were people from the south here, and from far eastern kingdoms. They all came up river from Umbar to trade. Dwarves too. Everywhere. The smith-craft of Khazad-dûm was a wonder, now anything made by Narvi is priceless…Cirdan had a necklace. Mithril wire with pearls and emeralds. A lovely thing. Did you ever see it? When you arrived on these shores?’

Glorfindel found himself nodding, and taking out a memory of the piece, lovingly as if he handled the necklace itself…fastening it around the elegant throat of Mirlien, Cirdan’s lovely daughter…

He frowned. He had not done that; wound her hair about his fist and kissed her neck…

Glorfindel shook himself, suddenly aware of his surroundings. 

…She had pulled him down upon her and pressed herself against him…

No. She had definitely not done that, thought Glorfindel. Cirdan’s daughter was a lovely woman, rare as a pearl and as unravished as he, for he was pure in all things…

…Except that one time. Rich golden hair…the colour of old coins…eyes barely seeing him, so lost in grief…His own mouth on that warm and generous mouth, stopping the grief even for a moment…

He shook himself. Where had that thought come from? Long suppressed and best forgotten.

But still he jerked when he saw Erestor smile and incline his head. He caught a gleam in Erestor’s amber eyes and the counselor gave a slow, knowing smile.

‘What are you grinning at?’ he demanded more aggressively than was warranted, but he could not help it. 

‘I am merely smiling,’ Erestor said irritatingly and then cocked his head slightly and his eyes were bright, curious as a magpie. ‘What has riled you so?’

‘You know what!’ Glorfindel said through clenched teeth. ‘I am thinking things and seeing memories that are not my own.’ 

You are seeing my memories as I am seeing yours. Erestor smiled again, but more sadly than taunting.

‘You are seeing nothing of mine,’ Glorfindel answered defiantly and ruthlessly shut down, suppressed, locked up all memories of his time before and since his return.

‘That is a pity. I was enjoying that.’ Erestor grinned wolfishly.

Glorfindel ground his teeth and determinedly imagined himself punching Erestor hard on the jaw, tying him up and leaving him for the Nazgûl. Make what you will of that! he thought.

But Erestor merely smiled and slid his gaze back to the empty chamber. Full of ghosts. Full of memory.

Ice stole into the air and he thought frost would soon coat everything in a silver sheen.

But the cold was not a memory. It stiffened the hairs on his scalp, he felt it prickling against his collar and in his hand was his sword, Eruvatorë, already unsheathed and he wondered how long he had stood like this. Erestor watched him, as if waiting. The thin grey light was almost dissolving now into dusk.

‘Ah, my friend,’ said Erestor with sudden and uncharacteristic gentleness. ‘I think you have begun to realise the power of this place. This was Celebrimbor’s Oromarde-Curvë.’

Glorfindel frowned. Oromarde, literally High Hall, but the word was used to describe a temple’s inner sanctum and he had never heard it used to describe a place of Curvë before. This side of the Sea there were few temples for the Noldor did not worship the Valar as did the Vanyar in Aman and he was certain the silvan elves had no such thing. He wondered what Celebrimbor had been thinking to call his citadel a temple of knowledge. Had it been Curufin or any one of his uncles, Glorfindel would guess at it being ironic, but he remembered Celebrimbor in Nevrast; there was a different intensity, an earnestness that was more Fëanor than Curufin. And his thirst for knowledge was more like Maedhros, Glorfindel admitted grudgingly. He did not doubt Erestor though, for he had been without question, a spy. If there was anyone left alive who knew what had been going on, it was he…And Annatar. Sauron.

’Celebrimbor played with Orma here beyond anything anyone before had even imagined.’ His voice was strange, as if coming from a long way away. ‘Matter, physics, is different here…’ His amber eyes flicked up to Glorfindel’s and he smiled indulgently. ‘You can call what he did Magic, curu, if it makes you happier, Glorfindel.’

‘It does not make me happy,’ Glorfindel replied and sheathed his sword. He looked around warily. The emptiness and silence was preying on him, he knew, and if he were honest, the recent past and the encounter in the Tower had unnerved him. He was not afraid of the Nazgûl, although he was no fool; fear was not their only weapon and he and Erestor were made of flesh and blood and could be slain. 

‘He experimented here…’ Erestor walked slowly through the dim, silent hall. ‘He was using the same curvë that made the Palantri, and Galadriel’s Mirror. I do not know what he was making, nor the nature of his experiment. But the last time I was here, there was a strangeness…like everything had become…stretched. Almost dreamlike at certain times. It was like Lothlorien has become with Galadriel’s use of Nenya.’ He looked down as if thinking for a moment. ‘Time was different. It passed slowly… sometimes it seemed the air trembled and there were apparitions… Visions… of the past and the future. Like the Palantri and the Mirrors. Celebrimbor was interested in Nirmë and something he called Tumnalómë.’ 

He glanced at Glorfindel and then said patiently, ‘He was experimenting with how to use it to open Time… like in the Palantir, or the Mirror.’

Glorfindel had heard of Nirmë of course, and Tumnalómë; you could not spend so much time in the company of Elrond and Erestor, and sometimes Mithrandir, without absorbing knowledge of the arcane curvë of the ancient days, and he was no longer so naive to believe that everything was down to the Power of the Valar.

Erestor stopped and glanced upwards. The roof was swathed in darkness and they could not see how high it was, but ahead of them was a mouth of utter silence, utter darkness. His eyes gleamed and Glorfindel saw in them, the thirst too for knowledge, for curvë. Erestor smiled then, a subtle smile that was knowing. ‘Have you ever looked into a Palantir or a Mirror and seen the threads of Time unravel?’

Indeed Glorfindel had. Once he had looked into a Palantir. Ah, so long ago. Another age. He would never forget the shock of seeing another face appear, and speak. That one time it had been Maedhros, his hair bronze and his once-lovely features blurred and a little indistinct but his voice clear as Telperion’s light, and as rich… Asking…No. In his subtle and persuasive way, commanding Turgon to come out of his mountain sanctuary and take up arms against Morgoth in the dreadful battle that became the Nirnaeth Arnoediad. Glorfindel had admired Maedhros then…Forged into steel by his dreadful ordeal in Angband, bending the Noldor to his will through subtle and careful tempering, holding to his will alone his mad, beautiful brothers…It was the Tears that broke him.

He became aware of Erestor’s intense gaze, almost greedy, and felt his memory probed, delved. He turned away appalled at Erestor’s shameless and greedy invasion.

‘Stop it,’ he said quietly.

‘You cannot blame me.’ Erestor’s voice was full of longing. ‘It is so long since I saw his dear face. To see him as others did is a rare morsel. How can you begrudge me?’

‘You do not ask.’ But that was not why. Glorfindel could not bear the desperation, the terrible loss. It was too close to his own.

‘You would deny me.’

That was true. ‘Do not look again.’

Erestor turned away suddenly and Glorfindel felt almost as though he had been leaning against something that had given under him. He blinked and breathed in sharply. It was this place, he thought. Too like Lorien for him, with its strange ethereal quality, too like a dream and unreal. If Celebrimbor had been playing with Tumnalómë, that would explain the strange merging of memories and dreams.

Deep shadows gathered in the corners and along the edges of the hall, creeping forwards as the thin grey light slowly dimmed, as if they were waiting for the darkness to fall. And the last watery rays of the sun touched the old stone in silence, slid up into the deep cracks that had once been the rival of Moria. Frost drifted on the cold air then and Glorfindel shivered.

‘It is cold now the sun has gone,’ Erestor said abruptly and he too shivered slightly.

It was then that Glorfindel felt it.

A stroke of cold down his spine.

‘Erestor,’ he hissed. ‘They are here.’

If he thought Erestor would not hear, he was wrong. Instantly Erestor was at his side, amber eyes gleaming. ‘Not they. Not yet. It has been near for some time,’ he grinned and it was chilling to see how gleeful he was and how quickly his loss forgotten. Not for the first time, Glorfindel wondered if his companion was a little mad. ‘Let us see what it is so keen to keep from us.’

Glorfindel was not afraid, but he was first and foremost a warrior. And no warrior would go into battle unprepared or weaponless. ‘What do we do if we find anything?’ he asked warily.

‘I do not know.’

He should have been less surprised, for this was far from the first time Erestor had led him into mortal danger without a shred of reason or plan. Nevertheless, it was always worth asking again. In case he had actually thought of something. ‘There is nothing in the libraries of Imladris, nothing you read in Mithlond, in Himring? Nothing?’

‘Well if I could somehow flick through all the tomes and scripts, all the references to Úlairi ever written, I might find something,’ Erestor snapped.

‘I am surprised that one of your great Fëanorians has not invented something that would enable you to do so!’ Glorfindel snapped back. ‘It seems they invented everything else you could possibly want; seeing stones, stones that hold light, stones that heal…anything to do with stone. Why not a stone that can read for you?’

‘You are ignorant, Glorfindel. Astonishingly so. Locked up in your mountain for all those centuries. What were you lot doing apart from eating and drinking and growing soft.’

He ignored that barb and imagined Erestor trussed up and howling as Glorfindel left him for the Nazgûl.

There was a gleam of white; Erestor must have smiled then, thought Glorfindel. 

‘You are not afraid of one Nazgûl surely?’

Glorfindel sighed. ‘No. But they are not merely wraiths. They can wield weapons. Like that bloody blade you have in your pocket!’

‘Oh that. I had almost forgotten.’ So casual.

Erestor suddenly strode off into the absolute darkness and Glorfindel followed more in irritation than in fear of losing his companion.

It was dark as pitch and the darkness pressed upon his eyes, Glorfindel thought the smell changed, the air was dank and there was something rotting rather than simply the smell of a deep place. It slicked his mouth, coated it like the smell of death, of putrefying meat.

He could barely see Erestor ahead of him and suddenly he stumbled and swore, for he stubbed his foot on something hard. He whispered to Erestor to stop. ‘We can hardly see where we are going!’ he whispered angrily.

Erestor was suddenly in front of him and his hand was over Glorfindel’s mouth. ‘Hush. Listen.’

He froze. Listened. Could hear…nothing.

Blinked. Shook his head frowning and then realised Erestor could not possibly see. ‘I cannot…’ he began to whisper but Erestor’s hand was back over his mouth.

‘Hush.’ Even softer, his hand pressed hard against Glorfindel’s lips.

He stilled absolutely. Opened his senses to the cold, dank air and then felt it rather than heard…

Far off, a distant sound. Not quite distinguishable from the silence. He could not place it. Had no word for it but it chilled his soul. No. That was not right either… It tore at him, with pity. Oh the pity of it!

He grasped Erestor’s arm and tugged at him. “What is it?’

‘I do not know. I have never heard anything like it…but is it not terrible and sad? And in pain perhaps?’ He paused and then said, ‘I think we will find it up this stairway, for this is the heart of the citadel.’

Glorfindel was aware then that Erestor stood slightly above him and that he had stubbed his foot on the bottom stair of a wide sweeping steps. He prodded it with his foot and felt for the next step upwards.

‘You could at least warn me of the step!’ he hissed. Erestor did not reply but Glorfindel felt his hand being taken by Erestor’s warm one and tugged gently. Grateful that at least he knew they were ascending, he followed.

The pitiful cry did not come again, but he thought he heard a whimper like an animal in pain and misery. But then all was silence.

Darkness pressed against their eyes. As they followed the steps upwards, it seemed almost to thicken and felt cold and heavy against him. Glorfindel found himself wishing he did not have to breathe for it felt that the Dark was entering his body and would suffocate him from within. He remembered how Legolas had spoken of the dark coiling about him, a serpent, and as if the thought had taken shape, he thought how it insinuated itself almost between his ankles and thighs, and pressed itself against him. Like a live thing.

There was a slide of something leathery in the shadows. A slow drift of colder air across his neck. 

Glorfindel froze. He felt Erestor do likewise.

Far off, deep in the bowels of the Tower was a rumble like far off thunder. And then that strange trembling cry once again. Misery and pain…and despair.

Then nothing…..

He felt Erestor tug slightly at his sleeve and edged towards him. In the pitch dark, his blade gleamed slightly but it was still silver, not blue. No Orcs then…but there was a dull green-ish edge to the blade that he had only seen rarely…but each time it had indicated the presence of the wraiths. He saw that Erestor too had drawn his blade and it gleamed the same eerie light.

‘That sound is no Nazgûl.’ He felt rather than saw Erestor nod. 

‘I think we have found what we came for.’

‘So Legolas was right. Rhawion is still here.’

0o0o

* Dragons destroyed Gondolin in Glorfindel’s previous life.  
* Menegroth was the old name for Doriath, which the Fëanorians invaded to reclaim a Silmaril. Erestor would believe they had the right and Glorfindel believes that any killing of other elves is wrong whatever the reason, justified or otherwise.

Tumnalómë - Hidden Power. Celebrimbor would have been without question, knowledgeable about Quantum Mechanics in my verse. In ME the Mirror and Palantri had been made for thousands of years before this time. To me, there is the idea of QM behind both of these artifacts.


	3. Nazgûl

Enormous thanks go to Anarithilien as always for her generous and brilliant editing, and Spiced Wine who has generously lent me a scene from Dark Star, which is a glorious spin-off of Sons of Thunder but with her own gorgeous and heady mix. And to both for the great discussions we are having about quantum mechanics - which are just richly bewildering.

 

Chapter 3: Nazgûl.

Ahead of them, the air shifted and seemed to part lightly, to thin. A prick of dim light was ahead of them in the gloom, and high, high above the wind soughed very softly; Glorfindel could almost believe there were still the remains of tattered banners or the silks of which Erestor had spoken. But that was impossible- it was thousands of years since these halls had been inhabited.

Something brushed against him. 

Cold. 

It must be the wind, he told himself, but the smell was familiar… old and empty tombs. 

Because those who should occupy those tombs walk still. Erestor spoke into his mind, and he agreed. 

I am not afraid of a ghost.

Nor I.

He drew his sword, and although there was little light in that forsaken place, it shone with its own fire, for had he not fought all Nine and held them at bay so that Frodo could escape? ‘I am Glorfindel of Gondolin and Imladris,’ he said evenly, neither raising his voice nor softening it. ‘Declare yourself.’

Nothing. 

He thought he heard a sigh, or it may have been the wind from high up from an unseen shaft.

He took a step forwards, feeling Erestor’s warmth nearby. Glorfindel’s own blade, Eruvatorë, gleamed with an eerie light that told him the Nazgûl was close.

Erestor was not so diffident. ‘Come!’ he cried aloud. His voice was shocking in the silence. ‘Show yourself! Cease this cowering in the darkness.’ 

Eruvatorë sent a light flaring against the shadows and for a moment they saw the greatness of the hall, its high roof where once mithril and copper had twined, where the great swirls of azure, emerald, garnets had been melted and curled in immense and fantastical patterns on the marble roof. 

‘We will not let you pass,’ Glorfindel spoke again and he filled his voice with Power so it rang like a clear bell. ‘There is a soul at stake and you will release it.’ He strode forwards then and let a silver light curl along the edges of his blade. It blazed ahead of him and cast bright light to drive back the shadows, 

And the darkness suddenly fell back. Ahead of them they saw the ghoul. It was kneeling, looking back over its shoulder at them, something flickering with light in its skeletal hand.

I do not answer to you, Glorfindel of fallen Gondolin…

It was a hiss, like the cold wind through the gaps in the ruined walls. The thin black shroud rose slowly and the Nazgûl seemed very tall. In one skeletal hand it had a drawn sword, a great broadsword of iron. Something dangled from the other bony hand, something that struggled, fluttered weakly, like a bird caught by a predator. It was a silver-blue light and fading.

‘Then you have forgotten who you were…and now you are nothing.’ Erestor’s sword scraped from its sheath and it flashed like azure lightning. He swiped the air with his sword for emphasis and it struck blue sparks from the stones. A Fëanorian blade, thought Glorfindel with a start. ‘And since you do not know your name, I shall call you…pitya-angu*.’ 

That is not who I am… The dark coiled and hissed and the thin black shroud lifted slightly in the cold wind that snapped around the empty chamber. 

‘That is what you are called now.’ Erestor cut the air with his sword and sparks flew. ‘I name you Worm.’ Then he turned outrageously and walked away from the Nazgûl. ‘You are nothing.’

As Erestor walked away, Glorfindel saw him as a shining figure of light. If he had been tall and lean before, if he had been beautiful in a hard and aquiline way, he was even more so now; he was filled with light, fearless, strong, tempered like the glorious sword he carried. It seemed to Glorfindel then that where Erestor walked, he melted a way through the dark, and where he passed there was light and power. The Song was visible in him and colour flooded the air.

But the light attracted Shadows which reached down from the high domed roof, skittered down the walls like spiders and reached out to the blazing light of the elves, like Ungoliant reached for the great fire of the Silmarils. Where the Nazgûl stood there was a greater darkness, Unlight. It sucked all colour, all light, into it and at its edges all was sepia, shadow.

You underestimate me. Fëanorian. Accursed. Kinslayer.

Erestor stopped a few steps away. ‘And you flatter me.’ He turned on his heel and strode back to meet his foe, swinging his great sword in a circle over his head as he approached the Nazgûl and it seemed that sparks struck from the stones as Erestor walked and he was Fire itself.

‘Come, pitya-angu. You have something that belongs to Imladris and you will give it back.’

At that very moment, a shriek split the air, filled the cavernous hall so it rang like nails on boards. Glorfindel wanted nothing more than to clap his own hands over his ears, for the screech went on and on and suddenly there was a rush of wind and his cloak was ripped back, pulling round his neck, his hair tugged back. The wind tore round the chamber and seized the shining figure that was Erestor in a whirlwind, spun his hair up into a coil and dragged at his cloak as if it were a fist clenched about his throat. Erestor flung up his sword arm and cut down with a mighty blow, threw his cloak from him and spun on his heel, flourishing his great sword as if it were a mere knife. Sparks flew and he struck the stone, then whirled and cut upwards. More sparks flew as if he had struck metal. The runes on Erestor’s sword glowed and became molten, silver words flashed and gleamed and seemed to be left, spelled in the air as it flashed and thrust and cut.

Glorfindel slashed down with his own sword and there was a howl of rage and pain. The shrieking increased, a fever pitch, but Glorfindel was aware too of a strange cry beneath it, like a wounded animal and he turned his gaze for a moment away from the Nazgûl. The pale patch of fading light that the Nazgûl had had clutched in its bony hand seemed to flutter even more like a wounded bird and fade a little more. He glanced at Erestor who was laughing as he fought the Nazgûl.

‘Do you think this will make us run?’ Erestor was shouting as the wind flung itself away from his fiery blade and screamed around the room and up into the darkness above. Erestor laughed loudly and clanged his sword on the stones. His blade flashed like lightning. ‘Glorfindel- I have forgotten. What is the name of Moringhotto’s minion?’ he cried, panting a little from the fight. ‘Does this slave not serve that lesser minion? Mairon? I have forgotten his name now. That lesser god.’

Glorfindel stepped quietly towards the fluttering, wounded light, gently coaxing. Rhawion? he called softly.

There was a screech of fury and he glanced back towards Erestor’s shining figure and the wind that screamed around the empty hall caught Erestor’s black hair. He flashed his white teeth and whirled the blade upwards once again, cut down on the wind as if it were a limb, and another shower of sparks flew into the darkness. The wind thickened and billowed outwards like smoke, became denser, black and coalesced slowly, thickening until it became one thick column of black, writhing and thrashing like a serpent coiling with terrible speed around Erestor and tightening about his legs, his thighs, his waist.

Erestor flashed Glorfindel a quick glance. Go! The word was bright and urgent in Glorfindel’s mind and he saw how the light was weakening. He hesitated for a moment for the dense smoke was a thick black serpent now, its horrible jaws open and gnashing at Erestor’s face. Erestor slashed at it with his bright sword and the serpent writhed and thrashed about and struck at his face again. Unbelievably he laughed and as Glorfindel edged towards the fading light he heard Erestor shouting insults at the Nazgûl.

‘Pitya-angu! Why has your master set you to watch this place when you are so very weak?’

Glorfindel did not go to Erestor’s aid, instead he slowly leaned towards the fluttering light which seemed to scuttle away from his approach. Meanwhile the hideous serpent lashed at Erestor with its fangs and then thrashed back at the blade biting deeply into the dense smoke. A horrible screeching filled the air as the bright sword bit deeply, filled the chamber with light and the snake’s shape billowed and changed, dissolved and fled upwards into darkness shrieking so that the echoes filled the cavernous chamber. It seemed to dissipate into the shadows but Glorfindel knew better.

Reaching gently for the shivering light, he softly offered his hand. It is I, Glorfindel. I have come for you. Come out of this darkness. 

For a moment its brightness shone on the palm of his hand and then there was a rush of cold air, a smell like empty tombs. The trembling, weak light fell back, and a thin darkness came between it and Glorfindel.

You have come for this nîmir? You shall not have him.

Then everything happened at once; there was a scrape of old iron and Erestor shouted at the same time as the fluttering light flared so it seemed to leap at the Nazgûl itself.

Glorfindel felt rather than saw the heavy broadsword descend upon him. He threw his arm upwards and Eruvatorë smashed against the heavy iron at the same time as the weakening light hurled itself at the empty hood of the Nazgûl. Glorfindel felt the impact of the swords judder all the way up his own arm but he locked blades and shoved the heavy iron sword back hard and heard it ring against the stones. But the Nazgûl itself had retreated furiously into the far reaches of the chamber.

So you wish to sacrifice yourself for your captain?

It did not speak to either Erestor or Glorfindel but in its bony hand, the glimmering light struggled weakly. The Nazgûl lifted it and turned its empty hood towards them and they saw reflected by the shivering light, a dreadful face, skin that melted over it and haggard eyes.

Will this cause your hearts to break? The light flared suddenly as if gathering itself for a last terrible struggle and seemed to writhe in the bony hand that held it fast.

Glorfindel surged forwards at the same time as Erestor but too late. The Nazgûl had raised its skeletal hands so it held Rhawion’s desperately struggling fëa and was shredding the fluttering light, as if pulling the feathers from a small bird and piece by piece the light fell like dying sparks from a fire, into ash until there was only the bright glowing heart of it. Before they could reach it, the Nazgûl had raised it to the empty hood and the light flickered again over the gaping mouth, open like a serpent’s. The Nazgûl swallowed the light. There was a brief flare like a guttering candle and it was gone.

‘No!’ Glorfindel leapt at the same moment as Erestor and their blades clashed against the Nazgûl. He felt it sink through old iron and the ghoul writhed away from it in fear and agony. Suddenly it sank back and paused for a moment before emptiness. 

And it was gone….

Glorfindel’s sword fell on empty air, clanged on the stones. His brightness did not dim but intensified for a moment and had they looked around they would have seen a huge Mirror, its obsidian surface reflecting the light, reflecting the high vaulted ceiling with its ghosts of tattered flags and banners. They would have seen strange instruments of gold and bronze, locked by disuse and neglect. They would have seen dust drifting on the surface of the Mirror, like dim light far away but moving closer.

But they were oblivious. Erestor sank to his knees and covered his face. Glorfindel sheathed his sword and looked away. They had failed. 

 

0o0o

 

In Imladris, Gandalf felt Narya burn suddenly, flare against him, scorch his skin and he cried out. 

Instantly Legolas was at his side and his hands reaching out to catch the Wizard.

‘Don’t fuss, child,’ he snapped, unfairly he knew but he could not bother with the niceties of politeness just now. 

Something had happened. Something significant. 

It was not the first time he had ever felt this, but not for many, many years. Not since the end of the Second Age and all in Aman had felt it then. Oh, there had been minor events since then but those had been a mere trembling in the Song as if someone, or something, were about to break it, to wrench apart the delicate threads. But he knew what this was; a fëa had gone from the world. Not just faded; that would not disturb the world. No. This was extinguished. Only an elven fëa, bound to Arda, would cause this shock ripple through Narya. He felt it pull at Vilya and Nenya too.

Legolas had ignored his brusqueness and had pulled a chair out for him. At least he had stopped scraping away at that damned fiddle*, Gandalf thought petulantly. 

‘I told you to stop playing, Legolas,’ Pippin said, pushing a cup of something into Gandalf’s hand and looking up at him with wide anxious eyes.

‘I thought I was getting better,’ Legolas quietly murmured but Gandalf could not attend them.

‘Get me to Elrond,’ he said urgently. Leaning heavily on the arms of the chair he had just been pushed into, he heaved himself to his feet. His bones and mortal flesh felt too heavy, too weighted in this earth for him to move and he struggled until Legolas put his strong arm beneath Gandalf’s and pulled him to his feet. The Wizard grunted a grudging thanks and clutched his staff. Instantly Power began charging through him, replenishing him after the shock. 

‘Get out of my way, Peregrine Took,’ he said irascibly, for Pippin was hovering about like a concerned bluebottle. ‘There is work to do!’

Pippin scuttled to the side and Gandalf looked up into the very green and concerned eyes of Legolas. 

‘And don’t you think to stop me either, Thranduillion,’ he snapped.

The green eyes widened imperceptibly but the Woodelf only smiled and bowed slightly. ‘I have no intention of doing so, Mithrandir. Indeed I will help you.’ He offered the old Man his arm and Gandalf, still not quite himself, grumbling, accepted it and leaned on the strong Elf as he shuffled out of the room.

He leaned on his staff in the other hand and felt the Power in Narya and the staff together leaping towards each other, charging, the energy forcing itself along his reluctant sinews, nerves, flooding his muscles so that he leaned less and led more. By the time they had reached Elrond’s rooms, Gandalf was striding along and Legolas following, and so they met Elrond who was already opening the door of his private rooms and welcoming them with a worried frown.

‘Come, Mithrandir. You felt it too.’ Elrond ushered them into his spacious and airy rooms which seemed all glass and marble, and looked out over the Misty Mountains. Tall windows were thrown open and the cold breeze lifted the gauzy veils that seemed more like mist. ‘Galadriel too?’

‘Undoubtedly.’ Gandalf strode into Elrond’s rooms. He had always liked these rooms but he had no thought for them now. He noticed Legolas had followed him in and was standing irritatingly solicitous as though he might fall down at any moment. He tapped his staff irritably. 

Though Elrond’s face was smooth and unperturbed, Gandalf knew differently. ‘I have only rarely felt such a thing…’ Elrond came to stand beside him, looking out over the Mountains, his eyes gazing south along the march of the Misty Mountains, to where they disappeared, faded into the distance. ‘Only once before. Long ago…And I did not have Vilya then and only felt it as a spirit burned away**.’

‘Hm. That was a terrible business,’ Gandalf tutted and his face was full of compassion. Olórin had always regretted the loss of so many bright souls and even now, in his deepest thoughts, he could not accept the judgment of the Valar upon the House of Fëanor***. It always comes back to Fëanor, he thought. And I will not be surprised if this does as well. 

Elrond had turned and was pouring cold, pale wine into three goblets.

‘Legolas will not be staying,’ Gandalf said a little more kindly than before. He did not want Legolas to hear this; he was just as likely to run off to Phellanthir, full of guilt and recrimination and do something impulsive and ridiculous when Gandalf wanted him here with the Hobbits.

He nodded gruffly at the Woodelf. ‘I am quite capable of standing up on my own, thank you, Legolas. I’ll thank you to go and keep young Peregrine Took out of mischief. He has been unattended for at least five minutes and I do not trust him to bring the whole House down around our ears in that time.’

Legolas looked at him shrewdly and for a moment, Gandalf was struck by the likeness to his father, and smiled inwardly. The boy was not the fool he thought himself. It was the Ring, he knew, that made Legolas doubt himself. That would go once they struck out on the Quest. 

‘You do not have to think of something for me to do, Mithrandir,’ he said wryly. ‘I will keep practising my fiddling. It makes Gimli happy to know he can best me at something and keeps him out of mischief.’ He gave a blinding smile that always warmed Gandalf and alarmed him in equal measure. ‘You have no idea the damage that can be done by an idle dwarf.’ He bowed slightly to Elrond and then he closed the door quietly, discretely behind him. Gandalf was thankful again for the very well brought up sons of Thranduil who had assisted him on more than one occasion when none other could have been trusted.

Elrond had sunk into a chair and looked haggard and drawn, as Gandalf had felt only moments earlier. He clutched the stem of the goblet but had not drunk any of the miruvor.

‘Here my friend. Sip it,’ Gandalf urged him gently. ‘We will need to think this through carefully.’

‘You know what this means?’ Elrond said, obeying Gandalf. He took a sip of the cordial but he still stared into nothing. His voice was flat. ‘Legolas was right. This is Rhawion we felt leave these earthly circles of the world. Where has he gone?’

‘And how is it that he has gone and yet the Valar have not intervened?’ Gandalf added tightly. He too sipped the cordial and let the light flood his mouth. It was strange how it revived him further and he felt his head clear. ‘Úlairi,’ he said. ‘Have we not speculated before on their origin?’

Elrond looked up now in concern. ‘The Rings devoured them, consumed their fëa,’ he said slowly. ‘This we are sure of. Do you think then that the Rings still have an appetite? That they still feed?’ 

Gently, Gandalf said, ‘It has been quite clear to me for some time that they still feed. It was Saruman who scoffed at the idea.’ Even now the betrayal was still so bitter. Everything he did he looked back on now through the prism of that betrayal and saw how stupid he had been, how beguiled, how he had been deflected and distracted by Saruman’s questions and observations. He sighed. No good crying over that now; it was done and they would all reap the storm of it. But Rhawion had paid a terrible price for Gandalf’s trust of Saruman. ‘Usually on the souls of Men, I suspect, for we have not felt it as we have now. We do not where go the souls of Men, but it is different for an elven soul.’ He shuddered at the thought of it; an elven fëa was energy, each one a resonance in the Song. That an elven fëa had just been snuffed out completely, had vanished from the world, from the Song was unimaginable. Although the Valar had taken that course with the tragic and accursed House of Fëanor, that had been their judgment. This was different. 

He turned to Elrond suddenly even more troubled. ‘How delectable to a Nazgûl would be an elven fëa with its brightness and Power?’ He felt a cold chill steal down his neck, his spine. ‘It had taken Rhawion by chance. It has been feeding off him, keeping his fëa alive- just enough to keep feeding. And now for some reason, it no longer feels it needs to…’

He found Elrond’s eyes fixed upon him in horror. ‘Is this true? Rhawion was being kept alive? So it could feed…’ He closed his eyes. 

Gandalf looked at Elrond with compassion. It was beyond his companion’s comprehension just yet but soon he would realise and then the true horror would strike him. 

‘For now, Elrond, we must also consider why it feels it can…’ He took a breath before the next word. ‘Why it feels it can devour him completely…’ He let that thought percolate. ’Erestor and Glorfindel are there.’

‘And Elladan and Elrohir are yet on the road from Lothlorien!’ Elrond came to his feet abruptly. ‘You think the Nazgûl devoured Rhawion because it believes it has two other souls for its larder? We must send out a troop.’

Gandalf nodded. ‘I think so. And I will go with them.’

 

tbc  
0o0o

 

Notes

pitya-angu: Quenya- little snake. Worm. 

*In More Dangerous, Legolas is learning to play the violin. Hence the reference.

**Elrond was fostered by Maedhros and Maglor after the Fall of Sirion. Maedhros is supposed to have thrown himself into a fiery chasm with the last Silmaril.

***The Oath taken by Feanor and his sons is this:  
‘Be he foe or friend, be he foul or clean  
Brood of Morgoth or bright Vala,  
Elda or Maia or Aftercomer,  
Man yet unborn upon Middle-earth,  
Neither law, nor love, nor league of swords,  
Dread nor danger, not Doom itself  
Shall defend him from Fëanáro, and Fëanáro’s kin,  
Whoso hideth or hoardeth, or in hand taketh,  
Finding keepeth or afar casteth  
A Silmaril. This swear we all…  
Death we will deal him ere Day’s ending,  
Woe unto world’s end! Our word hear thou,  
Eru Allfather! To the everlasting  
Darkness doom us if our deed faileth…  
On the holy mountain hear in witness  
and our vow remember,  
Manwë and Varda!’

Some believe that Feanor and his followers are in Mandos’ Halls, and some believe they are doomed by the Valar to the Everlasting Dark, as they swore. It is a hard and cruel Oath and you begin to understand why the Sons of Feanor were so driven by it- to avoid the Dark and to release the souls of their brothers already killed before the Oath was fulfilled.

The Doom of the Noldor was pronounced by Eonwë, the herald of the Valar:  
‘Tears unnumbered ye shall shed; and the Valar will fence Valinor against you, and shut you out, so that not even the echo of your lamentation shall pass over the mountains. On the House of Feanor the wrath of the Valar lieth from the West unto the uttermost East, and upon all that will follow them it shall be laid also. Their Oath shall drive them, and yet betray them, and ever snatch away the very treasures that they have sworn to pursue. To evil end shall all things turn that they begin well; and by treason of kin unto kin, and the fear of treason, shall this come to pass. The Dispossessed shall they be for ever. 

‘Ye have spilled the blood of your kindred unrighteously and have stained the land of Aman. For blood ye shall render blood, and beyond Aman ye shall dwell in Death's shadow. For though Eru appointed to you to die not in Ea, and no sickness may assail you, yet slain ye may be, and slain ye shall be: by weapon and by torment and by grief; and your houseless spirits shall come then to Mandos. There long shall ye abide and yearn for your bodies, and find little pity though all whom ye have slain should entreat for you. And those that endure in Middle-earth and come not to Mandos shall grow weary of the world as with a great burden, and shall wane, and become as shadows of regret before the younger race that cometh after. The Valar have spoken.’

So it seems that the Valar judged they should go to Mandos’ Halls of Waiting but their own Oath suggests the Everlasting Dark if they did not succeed. One could argue that the Silmaril, taken to Aman by Eärendil, was not recovered as they were not content to let the other two stay with the Valar. One does wonder why the Valar just didn’t give them the Silmarils and finish it all before the last kinslaying at the end of the War of Wrath (I can hear pencils being sharpened for the furious arguments already!!)


	4. Relics

Chapter 4: Relics

 

In Lorien, deeply asleep and dreaming, she too felt it like a wrench in her gut. Something had gone from the world… Far away, a soul faded…No. Not faded. Extinguished. She felt the same shock ripple through Nenya, Narya, Vilya…As that small fëa went from the world, the Three felt it like the tides feel the Moon.

She sat up from her bed sharply, tears streaming down her face for the loss- oh, the loss! A bright soul extinguished. Surely nothing had happened like this since the First Age?

Celeborn awakening too, reached out to her, pulled her back to him and for a moment, she wanted nothing more than to turn into him, to bury herself in his strength, his warmth and smell, but the sense of dislocation, of a terrible shattering of the Song overwhelmed her.

Fighting the bitter words that were always so close to being spoken, she threw him off instead and went from their still shared bed.

‘You felt it,’ he said. He said nothing of her rejection of him; he never did. He swung his feet to the floor and leaned forwards. His face was pale. ‘Something has happened in the Song but I know not what.’

‘A fëa has gone.’

He looked at her uncomprehending. 

‘Gone! Vanished.’ She said when he did not respond, irritation ringing in her voice. She was frightened, but would never admit to it. ‘Extinguished.’

Celeborn stared at her for a moment. ‘Is this Sauron’s work? Surely he is not capable of it?’ He fixed her with those penetrating, hazel eyes. ‘I have not felt such a thing for many Ages past. If it is Sauron, why now?’ He rose to his feet smoothly, and his long, long silver hair fell in a stream down his strong back. Her eyes lingered in spite of her fear, desire stirring in her loins as it always did. ‘What has changed?’

Celeborn opened the door of the adjoining room and stepped through, threw open the armoire and pulled on suede breeches, a thin linen shirt over his head. He paused looking at her, the shirt still open to his waist and she thought how beautiful he was, that she still found him desirable after all the long years together and the terrible tragedy of loss. ‘Elrond and Mithrandir will have felt it too?’

‘Yes. They will have felt the disturbance in the universe. They will wonder at it…’ Her fingers plucked at her gown restlessly; its white samite slipped easily through her fingers, fell in graceful folds around her, hugged against her breast and belly. She felt the pull of curvë, the mirror, and wanted to run to it, to seek answers.

His mouth thinned as if he read her thoughts. ‘You will of course be running to your Mirror for answers,’ he said bitterly. It was ever between them, his distrust of the curvë of the Noldor, of Celebrimbor in particular. Her Mirror, her Ring.

She did not respond but looked at him obliquely. ‘Where are you going?’ she asked instead.

‘I am going to the Marches to see if our borders are safe,’ he said as if this were obvious. ‘I must know if this is any threat to us.’

‘It is not,’ she said dismissively and sensed his teeth clenching.

‘I am going anyway.’ He pulled on his boots and swept his long hair back, secured it with a thin band. ‘I will send messages after our boys,’ he said.

That made her pause and she was suddenly seized with fear.

‘They are in danger…’ she murmured, remembering what she had seen in the Mirror when she had brought him to her. ‘Elrohir…his darkness lures them. They want him for their own…’ She had seen it, but even as she spoke, it was Elladan for whom she suddenly feared. 

Celeborn stared at her, anger kindled in his hazel eyes, the anger of a father who could do nothing to protect his only daughter. It made him unreasonable. She understood that even if she resented it. He strode to her and grasped her arm. ‘What have you seen?’ he demanded. ‘Tell me! Tell me this time!’ He shook her slightly and she gasped, staring at him. His fingers clenched around her arm and hurt.

‘What do you mean? This time?’ she demanded though she already knew.

For a moment they stood, locked, eyes burning into each other. 

Deep, unspoken resentment and anger simmered in his eyes. He blamed her, in part at least. But she blamed him too. She tried to pull away but his grip dug harder and his eyes were ice.

‘What have you seen?’ he said again but there was no gainsaying him this time. He grasped her chin and forced her head up. He had never forced her to give up her secrets before, never made her tell. It was too easy to forget his power, so focused was she on her own, but he had dwelled far longer in Menegroth than she. He had awoken under the stars and was one of the oldest. She felt the flutter of her heart in her breast and his eyes ground into her, blasted her and forced her to open to him.

‘I saw them before the Morannon,’ she cried. ‘There were the Nazgûl and they forced upon Elrohir an iron ring, an iron crown!’ The images crowded upon her, filled her thoughts. ‘He will never wear such base metal!’ she cried oblivious to her husband’s shock. Her voice dropped now to a murmur and she turned inwards, remembering the visions that had crowded together in her Mirror ‘Mithril he will wear, a different crown for he is most like me…I would make them kings in their own lands. Gil-Galad would be as nothing compared with our dominion.’

‘Our dominion?’ he asked coldly. 

She gazed up into green-gold-amber eyes, for suddenly hazel seemed too simple a word to describe the power of his gaze, lost in her own dreams of dominion, of pushing back the threads of time…of unlocking the door and changing the past. He read her like the words were written on a page. 

‘And how exactly will you do that? By taking the One Ring?’ His voice was bitter but his eyes were full of sadness, loss. He turned away from her in disgust. ‘You are no longer Artanis, the woman I loved. You are changed beyond recognition. Artanis would never have even considered that.’

Ah! How that hurt! She staggered back, clutching her breast. ‘How dare you! How dare you criticize me for wanting Power, knowledge!’ Her voice cracked, sobbed, and she felt the angry tears well up and cursed herself for womanly weakness. ‘You cannot possibly understand…’ The pain in her womb, in her breasts, in her heart, for her child. How could any man understand that! It was such a little thing, to take the Ring, to make it all right…to take the hurt and suffering and make it so it had never happened. She would be whole again…

‘Tell me!’ he stepped towards her, hands outstretched, a last appeal.

But she flung away from him, proud, proud, proud. She would not tell him what he should already know. ‘How can you be so stupid! How can you not know?’ It was as if he had forgotten Celebrian.

He turned away from her then. ‘Do you think you have the knowledge and Power to hold the One? You forget that I was under Melian’s* tutelage long before you set foot upon these shores. Do you think you can turn back time, you can part the threads and change the world?’ He laughed bitterly. ‘It is not only the Nine Rings that consume their bearers. You no longer simply bear Nenya. You ARE Nenya!’

He turned on his heel then and parted, leaving bitterness and frustrated fury in his wake. 

 

o0o0o

 

Celeborn flung himself easily down the slender hithlain that took him speedily to the forest floor, cloaked in golden leaves, muffling and softening all sound. Sometimes he felt suffocated. A fall of leaves suddenly scattered around him like golden rain. He could not deny the anger that raged in his breast, even as he could not help blaming her in part at least, that she had not foreseen what would happen on that fateful journey from Lothlorien to Imladris, that she had not stopped their daughter from going so late in the year when the snow was deep on the Pass, and Goblins and Orcs roamed…

He strode to the mews where he kept his horses and birds. It was quiet, the birds all roosted sleepily on their perches. The silence and peace soothed him. A few hawks turned their hooded heads as he passed. He walked more softly now though his thoughts were restless, full of recrimination; Celebrian had been so keen to get home for Yule, to be with her children, her husband, and he had laughed indulgently, protested, but been persuaded to let her go. A knife in his heart twisted. He had let her go. He was not blameless in this, should have refused to let her go, should have gone with her, known when she was attacked, left earlier to search for her… 

Did Galadriel think she was alone in wishing to part the threads of Time, to change the Past? Did she not know that he would empty his heart, his veins of blood, would suffer unimaginable torment to spare his sweet child one second of what had befallen her? 

But he would not lose his boys. He had lost his daughter and he knew he was losing his wife. 

Murmuring softly, he stepped into a stall and smoothed the feathers of the falcon within. It turned its head and shuffled along its perch so the jesses jangled slightly. He hummed the falcon’s Song so it stepped onto his leather gauntleted wrist and he smoothed its feathers, quieting himself as he did, letting the dark and anger flow from him into the air, the wind, as Melian herself had taught him long, long ages ago. He opened his free hand and let the his lingering resentment and bitterness towards his wife drift away, leave him. But even cool and calmer as he now was, he could not ignore the estrangement that had been gradually happening between them. It had taken a long time, but their shared pain had simply driven a wedge between them instead of drawing them closer.

He sighed and bowed his head. There had been long years where they had shared a purpose, belief, happiness even. But that had been destroyed utterly and he could not see how they would ever recover now…After the Ring had been destroyed as Elrond and Mithrandir decreed, Galadriel would sail. He knew that though she did not yet admit it even to herself. But he would remain. And diminish if that is what Eru had decided for those who yet lingered on these shores…The falcon shifted restlessly and he looked down at the wild thing he had captured and tamed. A pain swelled in his chest for what he had lost.

Hoofs clattered on the stone floor of the stables and he looked up; one of the stable boys was leading out his horse, silver coated Idrilhen, who snorted and shook his long silver mane. Celeborn knew the boy well and smiled. 

‘Thank you Rosgalad.’ With one hand he smoothed the horse’s soft muzzle and handed the bird to the boy whilst he mounted.

‘Will you be back soon, lord?’ asked Rosgalad fearlessly, for Celeborn was well-loved by his folk. 

Celeborn shook his head. ‘I ride to the Marches. Do not wait up for me.’ The boy handed him the falcon and Celeborn let Idrilhen ease into a long loping canter along the green sward and beyond the city wall. He carried his hawk smoothly, raising his wrist so the bird would not unsettle.

‘You will go to my children,’ he whispered to the bird as they rode. ‘You will tell them of my unease. An elven fëa has slipped from the world…’ He conjured images of his beloved boys, their faces clear and sharp. He showed the bird the way over the Hithaeglir, through the Redhorn Pass and beyond into the wilds that were now Eregion.

The Noldor have brought only evil, he thought to himself, and then berated himself for his treachery to his beloved wife. Yes, still beloved. And not only evil, he admitted. But much evil has come of it. 

He had reached the edges of the Wood with ease as the Moon set over the high peaks of the Misty Mountains. Stars faded and Eärendil sailed down into the morning. He gave a small inclination of his head to the Mariner, whose blood was mixed in the veins of his beloved boys. I hope you watch over them too.

He kept his mind clear of any of the images he had seen in his wife’s memory, and raised his wrist, conjuring the last sharp images of his children, their black horses coming down off the Mountains, for surely they were over the high ridges by now? The hawk looked about sharply, cocked its head on one side to regard him unwinking with its yellow eye and then flapped its wings. Go. Seek the riders who have my heart. Tell them my fear. Be vigilant. Make haste home with news for me.

The falcon climbed swiftly upwards on the air currents and when it was a mere speck, it sped like an arrow into the vast dawning winter sky.

As he turned, he let himself dwell on what he feared almost as much as the peril to his grandsons. Galadriel with the One Ring…They had had news that the One had been discovered, was to be taken to Mordor to be destroyed…It was planned that the company should pass through Lothlorien. Celeborn pursed his lips thinking that he would rather it went anywhere but Lothlorien. Could they not go through the Gap, and then Rohan, avoiding Lorien altogether? He hoped that might still be their path.

There was more though… what she would do should the Ring come to her. She would push back Time, unravel the threads and unpick the Past…change the future.

Ah, he could not blame her; he wished to do the same to save his little girl the torment she had suffered. But Galadriel would not stop at that. She would have every elven lord and king kneel before her and worship her as they would not the Valar.

And his boys, Elladan and Elrohir? Her plans made him cold.

I would change the world…she had said.

…I would make them kings in their own lands. Gil-Galad would be as nothing compared with our dominion.

His boys would never be kings as she envisaged, he thought. They would become wraiths and he would kill them himself before that happened. And though it would break his heart, he would kill her too if need be.

 

o0o0o0o

 

Far away in Phellanthir, Erestor had let his sword drop to the stones with a great clang. The Nazgûl had vanished, fled. And Rhawion’s dimming, fluttering light was utterly extinguished. 

Erestor covered his eyes with his hand. He bowed his head and so quietly so that Glorfindel would not hear, he prayed. ‘Eru, hear me at last. Hear the prayer of those you have forsaken,’ he murmured. ‘Punish us no longer. Have pity.’

He felt Glorfindel’s hand clasp his shoulder. ‘Has it gone?’ He shook Erestor ever so slightly. ‘Enough. We have time for prayers later. For now we must make sure there are no others, and that the angu has gone indeed….And where it has gone.’

Glorfindel’s blue eyes were still flaming and bright. He was wiping his sword on his cloak, breathing hard. But the strange atmosphere in the dim hall prevailed and Erestor heard Glorfindel’s thoughts, his recriminations and guilt as clearly as his own.

Too slow, too slow! As I was for Celebrimbor…Even worse, Rhawion threw himself into the jaws of the Nazgûl to distract and deflect the blow that might well have killed me.

No doubt Glorfindel could hear Erestor’ miserable prayer equally well, he thought. Neither of them offered the other solace or excuse and Erestor was glad of that. There was none. They had failed. Utterly. He closed himself off from the failure that curdled in Glorfindel’s breast, not wanting to hear, to see what was in Glorfindel’s mind- it felt too intrusive and regardless of the way he presented, Erestor was respectful of grief. He had had too much of it himself to wish to endure another’s.

At last he spoke quietly. ‘I feel nothing of the Nazgûl,’ he said, looking around and peering into the darkness.

’Nor do I,’ Glorfindel agreed. He paused, and then added, ‘But I feel a presence, a Power. And it is close, very close…Like smoke after Mithrandir’s fireworks.’

Erestor knew what he meant; the air was charged like a lightning bolt had struck. A metallic tang was on his tongue. He glanced up with sudden interest. ‘This was Celebrimbor’s Oromarde-Curvë,’ he said slowly, searching his memory of this place. ‘His greatest treasures were here, though surely they must now have been either destroyed, or worse, plundered and taken by Sauron. But perhaps there is some lingering Power.’ He could hear his own voice as if from a great distance, as if he uttered some great portent.

‘We must make sure there are no other Nazgûl.’ Glorfindel sighed heavily and rubbed a hand across his eyes. ‘It is too close to Imladris, and though we…’ He paused, then said emphatically, ‘No, I have failed Rhawion, I would not have them close to other elves.’

‘Not you alone,’ Erestor said quietly and held up a hand to still the other’s protest. ‘We both failed. I as much as you, whatever is in your heart.’

‘I do not see what more you could have done, Erestor…’

‘And I do not see what more you could have done, my friend. Rhawion did not know you at first, could not see you for the pain caused by the Nazgûl.’ He shook his head slowly. ‘Let us not argue over apportioning blame.’ He reached out to Glorfindel and clasped his hand in conciliation. ‘But you are right that there could be other wraiths and we still do not know why the Nazgûl guard this place. Surely there is nothing left of any worth?’ 

Wearily he leaned on his sword and pulled himself to his feet. He drew himself upright and looked about curiously. ‘What advantage does it give them?’ he mused aloud. ‘The Angle is close, and Imladris, but both are well guarded and secure against the Nazgûl as we have seen. Even all Nine.’ Glass crunched beneath his feet, old, ancient glass. He wondered absently why it had not been eroded by the thousands of years, ground into dust by the weight of Ages. Perhaps there was some lingering magic, and the stones themselves had not quite forgotten the Elves, he thought. But what he said was, ‘They had enough time to take anything of worth and destroy anything that they could not use.’ He took a step into the darkness. Shattered glass ground beneath his feet. 

Glorfindel must have thought the same for he suddenly said, ‘What do you think this glass is? Surely it should be dust?’

He looked down at his feet again. Stooping he picked up a shard of glass and cradled it in his hand. It felt smooth, and a little warm as if it had been in the sun rather than in a dark, abandoned hall. He caught a flicker of luminescence ahead of him and thought for a moment it was Glorfindel, but surely his companion was behind him? 

‘It is a mirror.’ Glorfindel’s voice came from behind but his glimmering shape appeared before Erestor, approaching from the wrong direction. 

Erestor started, glanced behind to see Glorfindel behind him. He gasped and then laughed at himself. ‘Of course. A mirror…’ 

The hall had been lined with many tall mirrors that reflected light from the shafts cut high in the vaulting roof as it was in the Great Hall through which they had entered the citadel. But here in this high hall, this inner temple, the light was filtered through prisms of glass. It had the strange effect on light so it split into vertical bars of colour.* Celebrimbor had talked about this endlessly; he said it was important why the light spilt into bars, why it did not simply split into the spectrum, how it could be understood. He had wanted to harness it somehow as Fëanor had done with the Palantri…A memory struck him with painful clarity, as sharp as if it happened yesterday…

…Celebrimbor’s bronze hair gleamed in the torchlight for the sun had gone, and his grey mercurial eyes glittered. He looked so like Maedhros for a moment that Erestor was distracted and lost for a moment the thread of the discussion. Annatar had leaned forwards, his golden-amber eyes glowed uncannily, disturbingly, Erestor had thought for they did not yet know Sauron in his disguise. Here in the Guild of Smiths, Annatar was a great craftsman, a lore-master, a gift from the Valar, said Celebrimbor. A refugee from Angband, said others who did not trust him.

‘You must watch to see why it is that the light splits this way. I have a machine that will help you to see what I see - a copper plate, a screen that I have treated and made myself…’ He went into how he had made the screen and how it showed light. Erestor had been intrigued but sceptical…Celebrimbor excited. The next time Erestor had visited, there had been huge mirrors in the hall, a sheen of copper coated them so the hall was filled with an ethereal golden light and then the light spilt; it was like walking through some strange, distorted rainbow.…

‘Yes,’ he said slowly. ‘There were endless mirrors here. So perhaps one survived.’ He tossed the shard of glass and caught it again in his hand. ‘As the light struck each mirror, it changed…there were pencil beams of light on the surface. It was a wonder but Celebrimbor used to say that this was not the wonder, this was only the merest suggestion of the Power that could be unlocked with such knowledge.’ He turned his head to Glorfindel and smiled slightly. ‘It amused Celebrimbor no end to see the faces of those fortunate enough to be invited to join him here…’

And Annatar…It had amused him too but Erestor did not say that. A shiver went down his spine to think he had sat in here and dined with Sauron himself, when all the while he was using Celebrimbor to help him uncover the secret of the Rings and then plotting to kill the man who helped him in the most coldblooded manner possible…

A flicker of thought touched him then, a memory that was not his. Glorfindel was thinking too, lost in memory. How strange it was that he kept seeing things that he had not seen with his own eyes but through the filter of his companion’s memories, hearing things he had not heard…It was the lingering Power here in this ancient Oromarde-Curvë that caused this mingling of each other’s thoughts and memories. And now he saw Glorfindel’s memory as if it were his own; Glorfindel’s charging attempt to rescue Ost-in-Edhel:

... they could smell the smoke and stench of burning flesh as they galloped along the banks of the Bruinen to Ost-in-Edhel’s aid. The host of elven steeds and knights, helms gleaming in the sun…Too late, too late…his white steed’s long mane streamed before him, hooves pounded the earth until he crested the ridge and lifted his visor to see better the burning city, the crumbling towers blasted and razed, saw it all with his piercing blue eyes that had seen more than any Elf living. Behind him was the snap of their own bright pennants streaming in the wind and the pound of horses’ hooves...too late, too late…

…Far ahead, ranks of Orcs, thousands upon thousands trampling the same earth as Elves, trampling blood into that earth, shrieking their triumph. A bloody trophy was lifted high; at first he couldn’t see what it was but then he turned aside and retched. A strand of long hair had lifted on the wind and a low, painful cry came from the still living Celebrimbor. Naked, bloody, he twitched and whimpered as he was hoisted into the air by jeering Orcs and then a forest of elven arrows whooshed over the heads of the standard bearers and the body went limp…

Erestor gasped in horror. He had not known. Not a single man who returned from that failed rescue had spoken of this, that Celebrimbor had been alive when they hoisted his poor tortured body high on the spear. He felt bile burn in his throat, and turned aside and retched.

He remained for a moment, leaning over, blinking, and wiped his eyes; he had not known for he had not witnessed the sack of Eregion.

“I am sorry… We kept that secret. War, you know how it is.’ He felt Glorfindel’s hand gently upon his shoulder and nodded. He did indeed know; secrets and lies were the aftermath of battle, of War, to spare the families, to polish the reputations if the victorious slain, to tarnish the name of the defeated. He felt the skin of the water bottle pushed into his hand and took it gratefully. Cold clear water soothed his throat and slowly he straightened. 

‘It is right that you did…Thank you.’ He did not say what he was thanking Glorfindel for, whether it was for the water or for ordering the flight of arrows. It did not matter. He thanked him for both.

Glorfindel took a step into the darkness. His back was to Erestor but he could see the broad shoulders were a little bowed and knew he felt it still. In spite of his hostility to the House of Fëanor, he still grieved for Celebrimbor and his folk. It had been a devastation in Eregion. Not a soul left alive in any of the three great cities.

Glorfindel stooped and he too held a shard of glass in his hand. It was one of the prisms that had glazed the roof. ‘It is strange that the glass has survived in spite of the ages that have passed,’ he mused. ‘And it seems one mirror was left intact. Does it serve some purpose, for surely Sauron did not overlook this place?’ He stepped closer and peered into the last mirror. His own reflection swam eerily before him and then Erestor came to join him and their faces appeared in the glass, pale and ghostly, like they were floating in the absolute darkness of the mirror. Their faces seemed lit by some unearthly light.

Erestor reached out slowly, fingers touching dark, cold glass for a moment. His fingertips tingled for it was like passing his hand through icy water, or as if his fingers had dissolved into the mirror somehow. He drew them back but his fingertips still tingled and he rubbed them together quickly, an unpleasant sensation indeed. 

‘Unbroken still?’ he said wonderingly. It seemed to him there were shadows drifting in the air behind him in the mirror and when he turned his head there was nothing. ‘Ghosts?’ he murmured. ‘But whose?’

‘What do you see?’ Glorfindel peered into the dark glass. Within the mirror, their faces floated and behind them, or before them- he could not tell which, was a distant light like a star. They stood looking into the mirror and suddenly it seemed to Erestor that they teetered on the brink, the very edge of a chasm of vast darkness… And they were beacons of light.

Erestor had the strangest feeling of dislocation then…He was disembodied and adrift in that vast emptiness within the mirror. Like the distant light, far away in the dark:

…It was almost unbearable on those stark, cold winter days in Himring, bleak as his own heart. He was cold steel, staring out at Angband, his one fist clenched. 

In shock, Erestor stumbled back. A sudden sense of vertigo struck him hard as a blow and he clutched at Glorfindel’s arm. All sense of time and place was gone, pulled, distorted by the Oromarde-Curvë of this place, and Erestor was suddenly in Himring again at his lord’s side. But the memory was not his; that memory was Maedhros’.

He was not even aware that beside him, Glorfindel had gone rigid, his eyes wide and he stared in horror at something far away and distant in the mirror…

He heard Glorfindel's voice as if it came across a great distance. ‘Come away! Erestor!’ 

He felt as if he were someone else, Glorfindel tugging at his arm but Erestor had sunk to his knees and reached out to the dark, cold glass… his hand seemed to dissolve into darkness, leaching his warmth, sending out a flare of light. He barely felt Glorfindel shoving his arm under Erestor's shoulder and hauling him to his feet. 

'Come Erestor! We cannot stay here!'

‘No, no you do not understand,' Erestor cried and scrabbled at the mirror's edge. ‘He is there!’ Glorfindel prised his fingers away and shook him hard.

‘No, I do not understand,’ he said and hauled Erestor away and towards the wide, sweep of stairs that led back down to the great hall, away from this place. ‘And I think nor do you. There is more in the mirror than mere ghosts. We must fly this place.’ 

 

tbc

 

Melian: Queen of Menegroth. She was a maia, like Olorin/Gandalf. She kept Menegroth safe through her ‘girdle’ a protective circle that kept all evil from their doors. In my verse, Celeborn has studied under her, has a wealth of wisdom and ‘magic’.

Oromarde-Curvë: The High Hall of Knowledge. This was the seat of learning, the centre of Celebrimbor’s experimentation in Science and the High Arts of invention, innovation, technology, knowledge. There is no question that Fëanor understood Science and Technology in an intensely serious and deep way; he harnessed light, he discovered ways of imbuing crystals with phosperhence that remained long after the source of the light had gone. He created the Palantri- seeing stones that communicated over long distances. I have attributed Galadriel’s Mirror to Celebrimbor as I cannot see Galadriel accepting this from Fëanor or Curufin - and Celebrimbor would have had the benefit of both his father and grandfather’s knowledge as well as his own developed over a long life and his association with Sauron.

*The light splitting into pencil beams of light is the copper-plate test that quantum mechanics uses to show how particles do not behave as expected. (short version!) I have no doubt that Annatar would have been able to show Celebrimbor this. The copper sheen on the mirrors is a ME version of the experiment. 

If you think about it, the elves lived forever- Fëanor made significant discoveries in his lifetime and Celebrimbor lived through the first age (part of it anyway) and it was 1697 when Eregion was destroyed, and he dies. So he must have been at least 1880 years old depending when he was born. That’s a long time to be thinking about science and technology! Also war tends to drive invention and I do not believe that Maedhros would not have invested time and money into developing weapons, improving farming to supply his armies. Not just Maedhros but Finrod, Turgon also living in hidden cities where they must have developed technologies for surviving the isolation.


	5. Now I know in part

BETA: Anarithilien - who is always right!

 

 

For now we see through a glass, darkly; but then face to face: now I know in part; but then shall I know even as also I am known.

1 Corinthians 13

 

Chapter 5: Now I know in part

A cold wind fingered its way between the trees that clustered around the edges of ruined Phellanthir, rustled through the last few dry leaves on bare branches that laced the sky immediately above Glorfindel. It was bitter chill and snow lay on the air from the mountains, swirled around the ancient and desolated city. Glorfindel shivered and then frowned. This was not cold. Not to someone who had crossed and survived the Helcaraxë…The cold came from within.

He and Erestor sat together beneath the sheltering of trees in silence for a long while. Neither could bear to speak, each sunk in the confusion of thoughts and emotions surrounding Rhawion’s loss; they had failed and could not bear to speak, to even look at one another. Glorfindel could not forget the way Rhawion’s flickering light had hurled itself against the Nazgûl to distract it from striking at Glorfindel and he relived it over and over and over, berating himself mentally for his slowness, his inability to coax the hesitant fëa to follow him. He stifled a moan and instead dug his fingernails into his hands as if that small pain would suffice.

And then he had seen in the deep darkness of the mirror, a distant spark of shadow and flame. An ancient enemy.…A whip cracked, flame licked, caressed a blade of fire…fire so hot it boiled the blood and melted …

Glorfindel felt the tremble in his hand that he thought had stopped long ago. He gripped one hand in the other, waiting for the trembling to stop. But it would not. He dug his nails in deeper to the fleshy part of his hand but it did not hurt enough, not enough to stop the pain of Rhawion’s death, not enough to stop the fear.

Silently he opened his pack and dished out the last of their rations, quickly so that Erestor would not see how his hands shook, how his face was drained of blood. He could not bear the idea of food for himself but he knew he must eat. It was harder bread than he knew Erestor would have liked. Usually Erestor would have complained loudly but Glorfindel could see that he too was stunned into silence and Glorfindel was grateful at least that he did not have to speak, for he thought his voice might tremble as did his hands. Erestor flipped open the last wineskin and drank, passed it to Glorfindel without looking at him.

Erestor seemed barely cognisant though he was calmer now. Erestor too had seen something in the mirror but it was not what Glorfindel had seen, and Glorfindel was not sure if he wanted to know what it was that had caused the stunned, perhaps desperate elation in Erestor’s amber eyes.

Chewing the hard bread, Glorfindel busied himself making a small fire. He did not think they were in any more danger by having it and although he was concerned for Erestor, it was for himself that he built the fire. Ironically. But still neither spoke and Glorfindel still could not bear to look Erestor in the eye, not just yet.

Small flames flickered over the little pile of kindling and he thought how they had been experiencing each other’s thoughts and memories. It had become more intense and distinct the closer they drew to the mirror but they had not seen the same thing, of that Glorfindel was certain. Unless Erestor was even more insane than he had thought.….He stared into the flames, let his gaze drift. Could it be that even after the centuries of abandonment, the Ormalondé and the mirror within it yet had some strange power? Erestor had said Celebrimbor played with Orma, tumnalómë; that his curvë was unsurpassed in these later times. And throughout the years of his greatest experimentation, Annatar had sat at his right hand. Sauron. He knew all the secrets of the Noldor now. No wonder he had placed Nazgûl to guard this empty and haunted city. But what did Sauron think he was guarding? If it was the mirror, what was its power?

And although the strange power of Phellanthir explained the Nazgûl’s presence, it did not explain why it now devoured an elven fëa when it had never done so before.

Restlessly, he threw a small twig on the fire, unnecessarily and pulled the water-skin from his pack and two small tin cups. He poured water into each and set them between the stones of the shallow fire pit he had already dug.

Was it a mere memory reflected back to him in the mirror, or was the Valarauko, the balrog, somehow seen through the mirror itself.. or worse, trapped somehow on the other side? Was that why there was so much smashed glass on the floor of the hall? Had someone deliberately smashed the mirrors…had something tried to get out?

The hairs on his body stiffened in horror. Had something already got out?

His hands stilled and he stared into the little flames that flickered up through the kindling. 

Shadow and flame.

…..Ruinataró…..

A whisper. A distant blaze in the darkness. The other side of the mirror.

He turned to stare into the dark trees and bushes that waved suddenly in a wind that seemed to come from nowhere. The hairs on the back of his neck prickled stiffening and he felt an unreasonable fear in the pit of his stomach…

‘We must leave. Now. Before the snow falls,’ he said, standing up. He started to kick over the fire but Erestor lay a hand on his foot and stayed him.

‘No. Why? Why so sudden? We have only just found the secret of the Tower and you want to turn tail and run?’ He shoved Glorfindel’s foot out of range of the fire, aggressively and Glorfindel stepped back.

‘We must leave.’ Glorfindel ran his hands through his hair anxiously. ‘Erestor. Think.!’ He crouched down beside Erestor, wanting to impress upon his companion the urgency, the danger they were in. ‘Rhawion has been… destroyed. And there is …something in that mirror. We need to tell Mithrandir, and Elrond. Let them decide.’

’We cannot simply leave this to Sauron,’ Erestor said angrily, turning his face away from Glorfindel. He leaned over and grabbed a stick to stir the ashes of the fire that Glorfindel had kicked over, teasing it back to life.‘We are not leaving. Have you forgotten already Rhawion’s sacrifice?’

Glorfindel had to steady himself against the thin trunk of a young tree nearby. Covering his eyes with his hand, he shook his head. Ah, Rhawion! That faint fluttering light that was all that remained of Rhawion’s fëa had cast itself into the clutches of the Nazgûl to distract the wraith, to save Glorfindel from a blow that would surely have killed him. He felt a cry fight its way from somewhere deep inside and heard himself give a low groan. He clutched his chest for it hurt physically to think on it.

Immediately Erestor was on his feet and reached out to him. ‘Ah! Forgive me my friend!’ 

But Glorfindel stepped away, shaking his head. ‘No. I deserve no comfort.’ He forced himself to look at Erestor, to face Erestor in his own cowardice. ‘You are right.’ He could not help glancing over his shoulder into the dark trees, his hair still on end and prickling. Cold and afraid, he thought with disgust, he who feared nothing. Needing something warm but afraid to abandon his guard, he leaned down and reached for the tin cup of water that had warmed in the flames.

…Do you fear to meet it again? Do you fear the whip of fire, the blade, the sheer, unimaginable heat that scald and then burns, sets your hair alight, melts your skin, your eyes.. 

The tin cup clattered and water spilt, hissed on the flames.

Erestor looked up in sudden concern. ‘You must not blame yourself so,’ he said quietly and reached out to still Glorfindel’s trembling hand.

Glorfindel stared down, shocked at himself, disgusted with his craven cowardice. For he was not the only Elf to have faced, and been slain, by balrogs and dragons.

‘My heart forebodes,’ he said, but he could not speak of it more.

Erestor watched him in concern for a moment and then carefully settled himself by the fire, knees drawn up and thoughtful. It was intended to soothe, thought Glorfindel but it did not. 

‘In Eregion we thought it was safe, it was the good times,’ Erestor glanced up at Glorfindel and then back to the fire. ‘We thought we could prosper and grow as Fëanor had told us we would when we followed him from Aman- as my father did.’

Glorfindel stood on the edge of the firelight and stared out into the darkness; he had had the same dreams, the same desire to Iive as Eru intended, but Erestor was speaking of the Second Age after the War of Wrath, when Moringhotto was banished to the Everlasting Dark, beyond the ken of Elf or Man. By the time Celebrimbor had come to Eregion, Glorfindel had been long dead, his body ash upon the mountains of Gondolin…It was not as if he had not thought it before, but here in the shadows of Phellanthir with the distant fire and shadows in the mirror, it raised the hairs on his neck so they were stiff with horror. His hands tightened into fists for he felt a tremble begin once more and it seemed to him there were things lurking in the trees just beyond the firelight. But he could hear nothing.

‘We thought we could pursue our ambitions to the end,’ Erestor continued as if he did not know that Glorfindel was standing at the edge of the light, straight-backed, tall, but tension in every muscle of his body. Erestor reached for the loaf of hard bread and tore a piece off. ‘We thought we could know the mind of Eru. And Celebrimbor thought he could heal Arda itself. He wanted to build a kingdom such as Valinor, to rival, even surpass it.’ Erestor sighed and stared into the small tin cup in his hand. ‘But the Enemy will not countenance it.’ 

He spoke in a way that Glorfindel knew he did not mean Sauron. Although he was significant enough, he was nothing compared with Morgoth; Erestor knew that of all the inhabitants of Imladris, Glorfindel alone knew that when he said the Enemy, he meant Moringhotto Bauglir himself. But Erestor spoke of Morgoth as if he were still a threat though the Valar had cast him into the emptiness of the Everlasting Dark more two Ages ago.

‘I do not understand how completely he managed to destroy the House of Fëanor. It is almost as if the Music demands it…’ Erestor continued. He stared into the fire, the flames that licked and danced and gave comfort, warmth. ‘Almost as if it is written, in the Music. That it is the will of Eru that the House of Fëanor is sacrificed to defeat Bauglir.’

Glorfindel glanced away from the dark trees for a moment. Erestor had that faraway look in his eyes and did not blink. A strange light seemed to flicker in his eyes though Glorfindel did not know the source. There was a wildness, a fey light in his eyes and not for the first time did Glorfindel wonder what it was that had elated Erestor when he touched the mirror. And why had Erestor not felt the Balrog as he had? Erestor looked down, absorbed, he drew something in the dust although Glorfindel could not see what it was unless he moved from his place at the edge of the light. He was not sure he wanted to.

‘To evil end shall all things turn that they begin well,’ Erestor said suddenly, bitterness in his voice and Glorfindel braced himself against the heresy that was sure to come for he had grown used to Erestor’s Fëanorian rants when in his cups in Imladris. ‘Why would the Valar wish this, Glorfindel? Why would they curse us so that every single good deed ends in evil? What perverse delight does that give them in the revenge they have wreaked so entirely upon us?’

Us to Erestor was Fëanor and his followers, kinslayers, heretics and Glorfindel was not one of them, he told himself, though at Alqualondë he had stood by horrified, unable to judge what was happening and how the terrible killing had begun.

‘You are overwrought,’ Glorfindel said a little shortly, and moved slightly. He had honed his patience to a weapon but it was growing thin; the loss of Rhawion and the growing sense of horror unnerved him. He looked into the trees again. Was that a stick breaking under a foot? He started and took a step forwards, hand already on the pommel of Eruvatorë. Nothing.

You are being foolish, he told himself in.desperation. That distant spark could have been anything…it could have been the reflection from Erestor’s strange Fëanorian sword…But he knew it was not. 

Shadow and flame.

…..Ruinataró…..

A whisper in the darkness of the mirror. In truth, there was no doubt.

Erestor’s voice ran in in the background and at first Glorfindel barely attended -he was listening to the woods, stretching out his awareness, feeling for a flame, heat that singed the edge of the air…But there was nothing. 

‘Tears unnumbered ye shall shed; and the Valar will fence Valinor against you, and shut you out, so that not even the echo of your lamentation shall pass over the mountains. On the House of Fëanor the wrath of the Valar lieth from the West unto the uttermost East, and upon all that will follow them it shall be laid also. Their Oath shall drive them, and yet betray them, and ever snatch away the very treasures that they have sworn to pursue.To evil end shall all things turn that they begin well; and by treason of kin unto kin, and the fear of treason, shall this come to pass. The Dispossessed shall they be for ever. ..."

Erestor’s voice took on the tone of a storyteller telling an old, familiar tale, as it indeed it was. Glorfindel did not want to hear this now. He did not want to dwell on the past, and Gondolin. And his own death.There was evil in the woods, he was sure and this was merely a distraction

’Do you not think it harsh, Laurëfindë, that to evil end shall all things turn though they begin well?’ Erestor asked bitterly. ‘Is that what your Gods wish for Middle Earth?’

Glorfindel pressed his lips together at the thinly veiled insult and braced himself for the inevitable tirade against himself and Gondolin. 

‘Celebrimbor was not even born when Fëanor left Valinor! He began such good and worthy deeds only to be betrayed by Sauron, the Maia that the Valar could not control and let go free after all his wickedness. Is that what the Valar wanted? Had they already doomed Celebrimbor to an evil end before he was even born?’ 

Erestor gulped at the tin cup he clutched between his hands, swallowed and blinked hard. ‘And it was such a very evil end!’ He looked down into the empty cup for a moment and then up at Glorfindel accusing. ‘Was that what your Valar wanted? Are they satisfied yet by the blood sacrifice of the Noldor yet?’

‘My Valar?’ Glorfindel would normally have steeled himself and let the bitterness and disappointment wash over him. But he was worn thin with… with what? With fear? He glanced at Erestor and snapped his mouth shut before he said things he would later wish he had not.

‘Did you never wonder how the war was going?’ Erestor was determined, it seemed, was accusing and angry.

Glorfindel did not answer, but he turned away and looked up at the dark sky. There were no stars. ’We were braced for the storm that was going to hit Gondolin,’ he said as he had a thousand times before, but he heard a thin tautness in his own voice.

‘Did you never think to yourself that perhaps hiding in the mountains was a tad cowardly when the rest of your people flung themselves again the walls of Angband?’ Erestor pushed himself upright and stared at Glorfindel. ‘Did you not think to yourself that you should ride out and help?’ [You need to explain this passage in the Who’s Who at the end also.]

‘No.’ Glorfindel snapped suddenly. ‘This is not the time or place, Erestor. You do not want this discussion now.’

‘Why not? I cannot think of anywhere more suitable than this.’ Erestor flung out a hand toward the darkness that crept at the edges of the firelight, towards the even darker and brooding tower. ‘Does it not make you think of Gondolin after you had gone? Its tall towers, white spires brought low by Turgon’s proud isolation.’ 

Glorfindel, already on edge, could not help clenching his fists.

’Turgon was such an arrogant prick, sitting there in his splendid cowardice…Turgon his name, turgid his nature!’

Glorfindel glared at him then and Erestor gave a sly smile, knew he had pricked the impermeable skin of his patience. Glorfindel said, through gritted teeth, ‘I am going to let the Nazgûl have you. With any luck they will take you to Barad-dûr. You could defeat Sauron single handedly. He will explode in fury and I will be done with both of you.’ 

Erestor laughed loudly at that, pleased. ‘You are recovering your sense of humour, Laurelindë. Lost that so-perfect-balrog-slayer shine. You do need to overcome your own demons,’ he added coolly, just prodding now that unhealed wound. ‘You’ve never really forgiven the Valarauko for killing you, have you? After all, you aren’t the only Elf to have slain one. But I suppose you aren’t the only one to have been killed one either. I wonder why it was you and not Fingon…’

Glorfindel gasped. He had a horrible sense of a destined meeting, the distant fire rushing towards him, the rush and roar of flames. ’If your great lords had only paused and thought,’ he retorted in both anger and fear, ‘if they had only listened instead of throwing themselves uselessly at the gates of Angband, we might have got somewhere. But they were so determined to get those damned jewels they could not see anything but that! If they had not killed other Elves in Lossar, in Doriath, in Sirion, if they had not betrayed Finrod….’ 

‘If the Valar, cursed be their names forever until the Dagor,’ Erestor snapped back, rising to his feet, ‘if they had given them the Silmarils instead of denying them, if Thingol had given them to their rightful owners, if that stupid, stupid Elwing had handed it over, if if if…’ He stood chest to chest with Glorfindel, amber eyes flashing and fists clenched even as Glorfindel’s.

Glorfindel shoved him away, breathing hard, face flushed and lips parted and all thoughts of the forest and danger forgotten. ‘Maedhros’ one good deed was to give up the crown to Fingolfin. At least he knew the weakness of his blood, the curse upon his House and sought to rid the Noldor of the Fëanorian taint.’

‘If he had known where the crown would end up, he would never have yielded it to Fingolfin,’ Erestor flashed back. ‘I admit that both he and Fingon were worthy of the kingship, but how Maedhros must have despaired his generosity knowing the crown was going to Turgon!’

Glorfindel turned to face Erestor, his patience snapped. ‘Maedhros is the bloodiest villain in history!’ he said in a low, threatening voice. ‘In the bloody history of the Noldor, he is the bloodiest of Elves. He swore the Oath that sent them all to ruin, he slew our kin on the shores of Aman for ships – and left us on the blood-soaked shore with nowhere to go, left us to face the wrath of the Valar alone! He let his mad bastard brothers loose in Nargothrond to betray Finrod and die, he led slaughter in Doriath, in Sirion.’ Glorfindel took an angry step towards Erestor, fists clenched. ‘He led and exhorted Elf to kill Elf, man, woman, child. He let the children of Dior die, and he would have killed Elrond had his own damned brother not protected those children.’ Glorfindel used a word then that had even Erestor looking at him in shocked admiration. ‘Helfdîn! He broke into the camp of the Valar and slew the guards on the worthless bloody Silmarils and stole them…It was just as well he threw himself into the fire for if he had not, I might well have helped him!’ Glorfindel stopped, chest heaving and eyes blazing.

Had Erestor not heard it so many, many times that he hardly heard it -- though not as colourfully and not from Glorfindel -- he would have thrashed him. Instead, with astounding and calculated temerity, he merely yawned elaborately. ‘You have become boring, Glorfindel,’ he said provocatively. ‘I thought you better than to believe half a tale told by the ignorant and stupid. You of all people should know that a story tells only a part of what happened.’

‘You aren’t telling me this is not true!’ Glorfindel heard the sarcasm in his own voice and could not help it. ‘Was Maedhros somehow innocent? Oh forgive me! How misunderstood he has been these long years!’ Glorfindel turned away in disgust. ‘Oh- of course it was Feänáro’s fault. After all, poor Nelyafinwë. He only did as he was told.’ He turned on Erestor, expletives flying from those normally cool, perfect lips. ‘It was just as well Moringhotto held him captive for so long. Eru alone knows what more havoc he might have wreaked in those years! He was soaked in blood,’ he said vehemently. ‘I can never forget the blood on the shores of Aman…’

‘Yet you still came,’ Erestor said with feigned boredom. ‘I have never understood why you lot followed when you could see the fires on the shores of Ennor. You knew you were abandoned! Why did you come?’

‘Because we were abandoned, you fool! There were those who had betrayed us and we wanted them to see! We could not be shaken off like a dog. We followed because Fingolfin followed. And because we believed in the cause. We believed in Feänáro’s lies. We believed we would be free in Ennor, that the life in Aman was not as we should be…Because we could not bear to think of Finwë’s death unavenged! He was our king too!’

‘That may be so. But he IS here!’

For a moment, Glorfindel thought he had gone mad. ‘Who? What do you mean?’

A dangerous and fey light came into Erestor’s eyes then and he clutched Glorfindel by the shoulder, leaned in as if telling a great secret. ‘My lord. Maedhros. He is here. He has returned to help us. As you did.’

Glorfindel looked at him in horror. ‘You fool! Is that what you think? Is that what you think you see in the mirror? I tell you, you are wrong. There is peril, danger…’

‘What did you see? Are you afraid? I have seen him! Why not? YOU came back. Why should it be only you to come back and no one else? Why not Fingon, or Ecthelion? Have you been sucking Manwë to get favours? Or serving Námo? He was…’

The punch was hard. It socked Erestor on the jaw so his head jerked back. So hard it hurt Glorfindel’s fist.

Erestor reeled and sank to the ground, blinking like he saw stars. He let his head drop against his chest so his hair hung around him, his hands loose at his sides.

Glorfindel rubbed his knuckles ruefully, all heat gone from him. He looked away into the woods. The sense of danger had dissipated. There was nothing there now.

He looked back down at where Erestor was holding his mouth and pressed his lips together. He would not apologise. Erestor had had that coming for, well, years, he thought.

Erestor touched his lip and his hand came away bloody. ‘Well. I suppose I deserved that.’ He glanced up at Glorfindel irrepressibly. ‘It was almost worth it.’ Glorfindel looked away irritated again, but beyond belief Erestor continued, ‘I tell you, I know Maedhros is there. He has returned.’

Glorfindel turned away, refusing to even give Erestor’s preposterous claim any credence. ‘You test me sorely, Erestor.’

Erestor pulled his cloak around him and caught the edge of it, lifted it to dab at his lip. ’Ah, but just to see the fire ignite in you and the passion that had almost gone out burst into flame.’ 

Glorfindel glared at him but crouched by him anyway. He put a finger under Erestor’s chin and pulled his face first one way, then the other, examining the cut. ‘Barely a cut,’ he said dismissively and stood up.

‘It will add to my rakish look,’ Erestor said irrepressibly. He watched Glorfindel, his amber eyes deep and penetrating. ‘I forgive you the blow, but not the slander against he who was the most honourable, noble, kind, and courageous man I have ever known. He did all of those things, it is true but not in the way you say. And he did not give Maglor a Silmaril- he took both.’ Glorfindel stared back irritably, he did not much care whether Maedhros had taken one or two of those cursed jewels, it made no difference to him. ‘I swear to you. Glorfindel. Maedhros is in there. Somehow. He has returned to help us.’

That stunned Glorfindel into silence. He stared at Erestor; surely he was mad? Maedhros returned? ‘What do you mean; he is in there? In where?’

Erestor sighed, frustrated. ‘You know exactly what I mean. Somehow he is …well, somehow he is in the mirror. Or in a place reached through it.’ He looked up at Glorfindel then and the fey hopefulness was back. ‘He is here, Glorfindel. I felt his memory as if it were my own. I know.’

‘I must have hit you harder than I thought.’ Glorfindel flexed his hand experimentally and shook his head. ‘You know that this is just a delusion, Erestor, brought about by the Ring working on you before we left Imladris- it made you vulnerable, and then we came here where there is a strange power so you were experiencing what I thought and I you.’ He took a deep breath, relief suddenly flooding through him as he listened to his own words and believed them. The Balrog is no more real than Maedhros, he realised. It is long gone into the Dark. Suddenly the distant flame in the mirror was only a flicker of light reflected from his sword perhaps, or some piece of glass glinting. He breathed and looked down at the ground, letting all the hysteria seep from him. It was no Balrog, he told himself. The whisper had been his imagination amplified perhaps by the strange power of the mirror, or perhaps only the Hall itself.

The relief was so intense he almost stumbled. When he looked up, he saw that Erestor watched him acutely.

Even then, he did not expect Erestor’s next question.

’What did you see in the mirror? I know that you were afraid.’

Glorfindel pulled back, unwilling to speak of that distant spark he had been so convinced was his old enemy.

But Erestor persisted. ‘There is only one thing I can think would strike fear into your heart, Glorfindel of Gondolin, of Imladris, fearless, blessed. Only one…’ He stared at Glorfindel now, the orange flames cast a light over his features, shadowed the sharp cheekbones and angular bones of his face, flickered in the strange, vulpine eyes. ‘I know what it is you saw.’

Glorfindel took a step towards him. ‘Do not speak it.’

‘I am right then. You saw the demon that slew you…’ 

Glorfindel thinned his lips and looked upwards, away into the huge empty night. ‘I saw…a flicker of something… like a flame. But it was only the light reflecting from your sword perhaps, or mine,’ he said firmly. ‘There is nothing in the mirror but glass.’

‘I do not believe that.’ Erestor was defiant. ‘I felt, knew Maedhros’ thoughts…It was so clear.’

There was such longing in his voice that Glorfindel flicked a glance at him and compassion mellowed the sharp response that was on his lips. ‘It is the strange power of this place that makes us see things,’ he said softly. ‘If it were true that you saw Maedhros, how is it then that you felt something that was your heart’s desire and I felt my only fear? And for all his faults, Maedhros would have battled a balrog with everything in his blood. Either he or the balrog would have been vanquished.’

That silenced Erestor indeed and he looked away so that Glorfindel could not see his face.

The dark trees that edged the small clearing in which they had built their fire suddenly seemed just that, and all sense of menace gone. Above them the night sky soared and Glorfindel felt the cold air coming down from the mountains, smelling of snow. It seemed clean and fresh to him, and he welcomed it for it cleared his head now of the cobweb of fear that had seized him in Phellanthir. Of course, the Nazgûl’s presence had been very strong and he reproached himself for being so beguiled by their chief weapon, fear. Surely that was why he had not recognised the distant flicker for what it was, sword, glass, starlight, but thought immediately of demons? 

He shook his head at himself and his gullibility and sat beside Erestor. He picked up a smooth stick and held it between his fingers for a moment, contemplating its silvery wood. ‘You are haunted by your past,’ he said more gently. ‘As I am haunted by mine.’ Rarely did he speak of it for it cost him, even in Imladris and here in the empty night of Phellanthir with its shadows and delusions, it still felt like he was tempting Námo himself.

Yet he continued because in spite of the fact that Erestor was dangerous and mercurial, and he brandished his past like a banner, unrepentant and brazen, Glorfindel knew that he was as deeply hurt and damaged as he was himself by the events of his past.

Quietly he spoke. ‘I have thought more of it recently. I have thought more of Gondolin, how it was that we were betrayed, how we failed to see the truth about Maeglin.’ He struggled over the name. ‘I have…questioned myself and why things happened as they did.’ He chanced a look at Erestor but he was resting his elbows on his bent knees and staring into the fire. The orange glow reflected in his strange eyes, making him look even more vulpine than ever with the shadows of his cheekbones, the angular handsomeness. That scar on his face that was so faint as to be almost invisible. 

‘You know my thoughts, Erestor,’ he said even more quietly because these were confidences he had shared with no one. Ever. Though perhaps many might guess at the tenor of them. ‘You burst in on me the night of the council. You challenged me then about the influence of the Ring. You yourself knew that it was amplifying your own loss and longing.’ He paused, waiting for it to permeate Erestor’s defiant refusal.

‘Ash Nazg.’ Erestor murmured. ‘Of course. Perhaps that is what this is. The Ring is on the move.’ He shifted and sighed. ‘Perhaps.’ He was slowly accepting it, thought Glorfindel. ‘Perhaps the mirror enhances memory. The beast that still looms over your past and my lord…’ His voice cracked a little and he swallowed. ‘My lord in mine.’ He looked into the flames and the reflection of flames was bright in his eyes.

Glorfindel almost out his hand on Erestor’s shoulder but he knew it would not be welcome now. Blood spotted his mouth still, wet and bright.

‘If it had been your lord indeed, then you would have to ask why he was in the same place as the demon. It would mean that the mirror was a… door? A gateway somehow to the Everlasting Dark…’ He paused and then looked at Erestor, his own blue eyes bright and clear. ‘And surely Maedhros is not cast into the Dark?’

He remembered, long ago, in another life. Turgon had bid him look into the Palantir that had come to him from his father. Gondolin was not quite as remote as many thought. He remembered the sudden surge of Power as he touched it and he almost drew his hand away but the darkness within the stone had cleared and he saw through cold Himring, where another Palantir was kept. Through the glass darkly, he saw a tall, shadowy figure turn and approach. Broad- shouldered and lean, Maedhros. His mercurial eyes fastened upon the stone and his face, even scarred and disfigured, was still beautiful, his hair of burnished bronze….He had smiled thinly when he locked his gaze with Glorfindel for there was no love lost there…But he had spoken passionately, persuasively, commandingly to Turgon, and so they had ridden to join the war…

Glorfindel shook his head and answered his own question. ‘No. Maedhros cannot be in the Everlasting Dark.’ Even with all the sins of his House, of his own even Glorfindel thought tragedy hung about the eldest son of Fëanor.

Erestor was deep in thought now. He drew something in the dust again, a star. Fëanor’s symbol.

Erestor opened his mouth and then shut it again quickly. He flicked a quick look up at Glorfindel as if he were thinking something entirely different, and if they were still in Imladris Glorfindel would have have thought it a sly look. But Erestor said then in an exquisitely mild voice, ‘We should go back.’

Glorfindel started. He had not expected that, although he knew they could not simply leave. 

‘We must discover why it is that the Nazgûl was put here to guard it,’ continued Erestor. ‘And why the Nazgûl have suddenly started to consume elven souls when they have not done so before.’

Glorfindel sighed. He did not wish to return to that dismal place where the echoes of the past were segued one into the other. But they could not leave the Nazgûl alone and in command of this place. ‘Very well,’ he conceded and he did not see the triumphant look on Erestor’s face. ‘At first light we will return to the Hall.’ He felt a strange cold creep over him, like fingers tiptoeing stealthily down his spine. ‘One day only. When night falls we leave. I do not wish to be in that dreadful place again in the darkness.’

Erestor said nothing but poked at the fire with a long stick. The sparks flew up orange and gold like flaming hair, and he had a contemplative look in those eyes. Beside him, the dust had been blown across the Fëanorian star and it could barely be seen.

 

tbc  
0o0o

 

Who’s who:

Fingolfin- Fëanor’s half brother, whom he left upon the shores of Valinor when Fëanor took the ships and burned them. 

Turgon- one of Fingolfin’s sons, and later King of Gondolin and then High King of the Noldor after his older brother’s death. (Fingon, who in my verse was in love with Maedhros) 

Gondolin- the hidden elven city ruled by Turgon. Glorfindel was a lord of Gondolin. They only emerged during the Battle of Unnumbered Tears, the Nírnaeth Arnoediad. That was the last time the elves from Gondolin took part in the fight against Morgoth, hence Erestor’s jibe. Glorfindel is assumed to have been reborn and returned to Middle Earth to help the fight against Sauron. In this second life, he led the siege against the Witchking of Angmar (chief Nazgul) but prophesied that the Witchking would not be slain by any man. It was Eowyn of course who did that (girl power!)

Palantir- Fëanor made the Palantir it was said and in my verse, Maedhros gave one to Fingolfin and so it came to Turgon. I have Maedhros using it to ensure that Turgon felt sufficiently guilty to join the forces of the battle against Morgoth.

Maedhros  
Nelyafinwe Maitimo Fëanorian, known variously as Russandol, Nelyo and Maitimo and then later as Maedhros, was the eldest of seven sons of Feanor, the maker of the Silmarils - great jewels that were stolen by Morgoth after killing Finwe, Feanor’s father (Morgoth was the original Dark God who Sauron served and who was eventually defeated and cast into the Everlasting Dark by the Valar at the end of the War of Wrath and the end of the First Age). For revenge, Feanor crossed the sea and arrived in Middle Earth after stealing the ships from another race of Elves by violent means- this was the first kin-slaying. In leaving Valinor (Aman) Feanor left behind half the Noldor, including his half brother, Fingolfin and his sons, including Fingon who had been a dear friend of Maitimo/Nelyo. When Fëanor arrived he set fire to the ships so that none could return for the rest of the Noldor. Maitimo/Nelyo alone stood aside and would not set a torch to the ships. His concern was for Fingon who was left behind. (In my verse Fingon is in love with his cousin although I have Nelyo/Maitimo refusing him as the Laws and Customs does not recognise any union between the same gender.) Feanor was killed almost immediately and Nelyo/Maitimo captured by Morgoth. He endured torment and captivity until Morgoth hung him by his wrist from Thangodrim. 

During that time, Fingolfin and his sons arrived having crossed the Helcaraxë, the Grinding Ice (their company included Galadriel and Glorfindel) and when Fingon heard that Maitimo was a captive, he set off to rescue him. He found him, it is said, by singing and playing his harp and Maitimo answered and pleaded with Fingon to kill him. However an eagle arrived and instead Fingon was able to fly to Maitimo’s side and release him but only by cutting off his hand. Maitimo gave up both his crown, as Feanor’s eldest son, to Fingolfin, and his former name, becoming known only as Maedhros.

Much later, Fingon was killed in the Battle of Unnumbered Tears (Nirnaeth Arnoediad) by Gothmog, the lord of the balrogs. In my view, this is the moment when Maedhros unravels and although he tries so hard, he becomes hard and bitter, and as one by one his brothers are killed, he engages in further kin-slayings. Eventually he and Maglor, his last remaining bother, take the Silmarils from the victorious Valar who have finally joined the battle against Morgoth and defeated him. It is said that Maedhros took one Silmaril and cast himself into a fiery chasm. Maglor is said to have taken the other and cast it into the Sea…

But not in my stories. 

In my fic, Erestor was one of the many children Maedhros ‘fosters’ but in a rather loose and casual manner in that he scoops them up and houses, feeds them- he almost cannot help himself, unable to see a child abandoned partly because of the torment he endured from Morgoth, and partly because it reminds him of Valinor, home, his family, father, brothers …to have lots of children around. They follow him and become part of his army. Erestor is named Narmófinion by Maedhros and is one of his closest personal attendants.


	6. Through Moonlight

Beta: Anarithilien- thank you.  
Thanks to the many reviewers and readers, and those writers of fanfic who write such inspirational stories that have Maedhros as central or an important character, Spiced Wine, Himring, Dawn Felagund, Lyra etc. There are many many more but I think those have influenced me the most. Hope I haven’t nicked anything without asking!

 

For a dreamer is one who can only find his way by moonlight…” 

Oscar Wilde.

 

Chapter 6: Finding his way by moonlight.

Moonlight shone on the once smooth and marble walls of the ruined tower, stole in through the cracks in the stone, and fell softly into the darkness. It crept amongst the shadows of the Oromardë, and touched the bronze and copper device that had lain unused for Ages past. Those levers and cogs had not rusted and were any hand to touch the mechanism, it would glide as smoothly as it did for their maker. The moonlight illuminated dust floating in the silence, settling on the obsidian surface of the mirror, shone on the surface of the glass and made a patch of twilight in the absolute Darkness on the other side.

Deep within that Darkness, a spark of light gleamed softly in the empty firmament, steel blue and cold, drifting. 

Here in the Everlasting Dark, memory bled, leeched away by the emptiness so everything was forgotten. Memories, thoughts. Even words. But the blue steel spark clung to one memory like it was wreckage, for it made all that long existence trapped inside the Dark worth living.

It was a memory of those stark, winter days in Himring, as bleakly cold as his own heart. He remembered his hand clenched around the stump of the other because it always ached in the cold. The sky was steel grey and filled with louring cloud. Standing on the battlements staring out at Angband it was as ice-cold as his empty bed.

The boy, Närmófinion, breathless and red-faced with running, burst onto the battlements and shouted that there were riders approaching, that it was the High King, and he melted and fled up the icy stone steps of the highest tower, straining to catch the first glimpse of his liege lord, his cousin, Fingon the Valiant. Findékano the beloved. Leaning out over the wall he felt he could fly, as they had when unbelievably, Fingon had rescued him from an unending horror. If he had not loved Fingon before, he would have loved him then. In the far, far distance, Fingon’s silver and blue banner whipped in the wind, and one horse streamed ahead of the other riders, hard pushed to keep up. 

His own heart gave a great leap and he threw himself recklessly down the steps, blood thumping furiously through his veins and heart pounding. Shouting orders, he strode through his fortress, throwing a command here about rooms, food; another there about who else would be in the King’s company, where they should be housed. And then he was almost running to the stable, throwing himself on his own fiery steed and clattering out of the fortress, shouting orders as he went.

The King. The High King. Cousin…Only when he was out and racing his own horse towards the silver-blue banner did he think, Fingon! Fingon is here!

When the riders appeared, Fingon was ahead, his black steed flattened out at a gallop, tail streamed out at the same angle as the rider’s long, long black hair with its ridiculous gold braid. 

His gaze cradled Fingon like he was glass. Gazing at him, hoarding every detail, every glance, every word, every breath. He barely listened to the words, so intent was he on watching Fingon’s mouth, his eyes, his hair, those silly gold braids that Fingon had worn ever since he himself had suggested it one cool summer evening, long, long ago. In Tirion. 

His mouth twisted in a pained smile that was somewhere between doting and despairing. It was but a day’s rest on the journey to somewhere else, but Fingon smiled (oh so heartbreakingly lovely, dazzling and Maedhros’ own heart leapt, choked him with love….fool!) and said he could not pass Himring by. 

After the feast, the High King had gracefully suggested they retire to consult on the battle plans, for they were in the final stages now of the onslaught upon Angband. The final battle….that would become known as the Nirnaeth Arnoediad, the Battle of Unnumbered Tears. 

But that was still a while away. For now he had Fingon to himself for a whole day and a whole night, in Himring with those who loved them well. And so it became harder, in every sense, to resist the longer he was in Fingon’s beloved company. He knew he was starving himself, dying of thirst and could never, ever get enough - and yet he would not touch Fingon. He would not yield to his cousin’s onslaught. He knew Fingon despaired of his ‘damned nobility’ but his sweet and beloved cousin did not care as much as he about what it meant to be High King. The kingship had never mattered enough to Fingon, he thought fondly, heart in his mouth and bursting, and eyes full of his beloved.

But resist he would. And when finally, they were in private, and Fingon threw himself into his arms, pressed kisses on his mouth, groped senselessly at his thigh, Maedhros clamped his teeth down on his groan so Fingon spun back furiously. 

‘Damn your honour! Do I have to lose mine to another so you will yield to me? What is wrong with you, Nelyo! You act like some shy virgin and I know you are not!’

And Maedhros turned from him, regret twisting in his mercurial eyes. ‘I am not Nelyo anymore. I am Maedhros. And you are the High King.’ He made an obeisance as if to reinforce that.

’Man of steel? So hardhearted. I could be dead tomorrow!’

‘Never say that!’ There was nothing that could defeat him but that. ‘Please. Never say that.’

But it took those words to bring him to Fingon, to bring his body and press up against Fingon’s. It took the mere thought of Fingon’s possible death to make him twist his arms around his king’s neck, his waist, like he would never let go. It had him allowing his beloved rescuer, his faithful, valiant lover to shove him against the granite wall and press his mouth against his.

And when finally after only a day, he left, Maedhros clung to those stone battlements again, gaze fastened upon Fingon’s tearing steed, galloping flat out along the paved road, his guard strung out behind him like streamers. He heard Närmófinion slip into the room behind him. ‘Go after him, Närmó. Stay with him. Give him this.’ He pulled a ring from his remaining ring finger with his teeth and pushed it into the boy’s hand. He glanced down at the ruby that glowed against gold; Fëanor had made it for him. ‘Tell him…tell him…’

He pressed his hand against his eyes. ‘He knows what he is to me.’

It was the last time he ever saw Fingon. Beloved, beloved, beloved Fingon. 

Over the Ages of the Dark, it was harder to hold on to the memory, to see the beloved face, hear his voice. So each time he did remember, it was more precious than any jewel, any jewel. He grasped it like it was a gift, though the pain of his loss crushed him deeper and deeper into despair, though all other memories had been burned away and only this one remained. 

Ages past, forgotten. Dust and ash.

Now there was only the Dark, and he drifted again for a while, watching the twilight in the Glass. Curious and waiting for the shadows to appear. 

Curious. Yes… that was the word, although he had forgotten what curious was until now, forgotten all the words… There had been nothing but that one memory, not for Ages past. 

There had once been another shadow in the Glass. Long, long ago. He had a strange feeling fluttering in his breast at the memory and he reached for it like he would a…a snowflake? 

Except he could not quite remember what a snowflake was. And the long ago shadow in the Glass…He clutched at a name: Tyelpo. Yes. That was it…but that too melted away as quickly as the thought…He drifted again. Close to the Glass where the light was familiar…like the light from something else, that was important. Something had been unutterably bright once. Long ago. But the thought of it brought a terrible crushing in his chest and reminded him that he was here somehow because of that. 

He brushed against the coldness of the Glass, and at his touch, the Glass shimmered and moved. Something rippled through it, and his steel blue bright burning spirit reached for the warmth, the heat left imprinted on the Glass on the other side, by the shadow’s hand. There was warmth and slowly memories loosened and fluttered like moths against the dim twilight of the Glass. Slowly he began to take on a dimly remembered form. 

He reached out to find his fingers pressed against the cold glass and his fingers sank as if into snow.

He had forgotten snow until then. He had tried a smile but it felt strange, as though skin were too tight over teeth, over jaws that were unaccustomed to moving; it was like Angband again…Angband. 

Angband forced itself upon him; the squalor of his body and his spirit…there, just a knife blade, lightly…and now there, just on the breastbone…do you see that point between the fingernail and beneath, just slide that in there…like that… Now let us see what you have here, encased in silk skin…it is flaccid now but look how it can be coaxed even against his will….Do you see how the metal heats? How hot it is now? Put that in there while you are stroking it…Do you see the pain that causes? Like nothing else. Heat that…Nail that in…Break those…

Eyes burned into him, black, crushing darkness. A precursor to this, the Everlasting Dark, the Void. For both of them had ended up here…A voice that set his teeth on edge, buried itself into his flesh, a dark mace that crushed him under its weight, pressure like gravity.

Succumb to me, or your Oath will never be fulfilled.

After he gave up screaming because his throat was lacerated, the voice was there again. In his head.

You will dream of me long after you are dead, see me burned onto your eyelids, think of me at every touch…even in the Halls of Waiting you will not forget…

It was true. He could not forget.

He could not forget because his was not the only spirit in the Dark. There were older, more powerful spirits. One that was darkness itself.

The cold belly of the Void was like an old fire with nothing but ash. Gold had glittered on the other side of the Glass.

An awareness settled upon the Glass. A Presence 

He felt it watching, remembered its voice. 

A roar was building in the belly of the Dark. 

 

0o0o

tbc

 

Next chapter already written and ready to post next week.


	7. Return

I was going to leave the Glorfindel bit out as I have already posted it on efiction.esteliel.de, but so many readers have asked so I’ve included it here

Notes to help with the Silm references:   
Närmófinion is the name Erestor was given by Maedhros.  
Eärendil and Elwing were the parents of Elrond and his twin, Elros. Elwing threw herself into the sea rather than give Maedhros the Silmaril that had been stolen from Morgoth, who had of course stolen all three Silmarils from Fëanor.  
The Dagor Nírnaeth Arnoediad, The Battle of Unnumbered Tears. Morgoth absolutely defeated the Noldor and their allies in this battle- it was the end of the Fëanorians really because Morgoth then systematically destroyed all their strongholds and they were left pretty much on the run then and dependent on others for hospitality. They were not good guests all in all! The main thing here is that Fingon, whom Maedhros loved and was High King of the Noldor, was killed.

Beta: the fabulous Anarithilien.

Thanks to everyone reading and reviewing. I don’t think I’ve ever had so many reviews as I had for the Glorfindel/Thranduil snippet. So it’s included in this as I originally intended. But it is gratuitous.

 

Chapter 7: Return

The mountains were behind the sons of Elrond now and Eregion lay ahead. They did not pause to rest or to gaze down the long march of the Hithaeglir to home but took the old road that led down from Caradhras and to long-abandoned Tharbad. 

Ahead of them, a spike stuck up from the ground; a gory head had been impaled upon it. They had arrived at the spot where, on their way to Lorien, they had routed the company of Orcs. The Orc’s eyes had been picked out and gory string ran from its sockets. Its mouth hung open and the tongue was black, engorged. That would be next, Elrohir thought dispassionately, surprised in fact that it yet remained. Perhaps even scavengers had preference not to pick at such carrion.

They passed the pile of rotting bodies for they had not stopped to burn them and they did not stop now. Pressing on, they eased their horses into a long, loping canter that ate up the miles and now they did not slow their pace. If all went well and they met no mishap on the road, both hoped to be at Phellanthir by nightfall of the next day.

Some hours later they stopped near the river for the horses needed to rest but Elrohir watched Elladan restlessly pace and he would not lie down to sleep.

‘You feel the danger still?’ Elrohir asked as he busied himself shaking out his cloak, settling saddles and packs on the ground. Both horses immediately nosed in the poor grass and tore up mouthfuls. He began to build a small fire to cook the rabbit they had caught a while earlier. It was skinny and to kill it may have been a mercy.

‘It is closer than ever… Still indistinct but there is shadow there.’ Elladan shook his head, agitated. ‘It is not just Nazgûl but something…I have felt it before but long ago and I cannot place it.’ He glanced over his shoulder towards the mountains, frowning. The tall peaks marched homewards towards Imladris many, many miles away but between them and home, somewhere, lay the Gates of Moria. He stiffened suddenly and leaned forwards slightly as if listening… His eyes were unfocused and his arms hung loosely by his sides so Elrohir knew he was seeing, that somehow the threads of time had shifted and Elladan was peering through. It had happened to them both. 

‘I have felt it before. It is old. And dark….Shadow and flame…’

Elrohir froze. Something in those words chilled him. He bent his head, frowning in concentration for he had heard those words before. He let his focus go wide and peered inward, seeking the spaces between the threads as Elladan had done. But whatever it was eluded him too, like mist and at last he shook his head and looked up. 

Elladan had not moved, still standing looking towards Phellanthir. His long black hair fell sleekly down his back and his grey eyes were unfocused. His hand though clasped the dagger he carried at his hip rather than Alcarinwë, his frost-bright sword, as light as Aícanaro was dark. The pommel of the dagger with its Fëanorian runic M scrolled around it seemed brighter, although it did not glow blue as it did when Orcs were close by.

‘Elladan, come and eat something,’ Elrohir said, wanting to break that intense silence. The rabbit was not yet cooked but there was still lembas and hard cheese. Elladan seemed to shake himself and crouched beside him, but his eyes were still unfocused and concentrated.

‘I will keep watch,’ Elladan said, voice strung like wire.

‘We will both watch,’ Elrohir replied calmly. He let his warmth reach out to his brother, wrapped his brother’s chilled heart with crimson heat and promised to protect him, whatever the cost. 

Elladan blinked and smiled. It did not need saying for both knew they would fling themselves before the knives of all their enemies before they would give the other up. 

He suddenly moved and shifted closer to Elrohir. ‘Do you recall our journey with Aragorn that time, through Moria?’

Elrohir shuddered. It had been a dreadful winter returning from the Wilds of Rhovanion where they had hunted Orcs. Both brothers had been through Moria before but only once and many, many years before with Glorfindel and others. This time it was only the two of them and Aragorn. 

It had been a strange and terrifying journey through the deep darkness of Khazad-dûm. He remembered with a shudder the suffocating pressure, the endless, endless dark that pressed upon their eyes and they dared not light a torch but crept silently along the broken and empty road through the deserted dwarven realm. 

A threat had pursued them through the dark and not even Elrohir dared face it; they barely breathed, barely whispered in case their breath, a word should drift down the tunnels, echo and catch the attention of whatever it was down there…for there was something other than Orcs and Goblins. 

A stumble from an exhausted Aragorn had sent a patter of small pebbles into a deep chasm and there had been drums in the deeps of the mines and they had fled. Not from the drums. Not even from the goblins, for the Sons of Thunder had never fled from goblins but taken delight in the slaughter and black blood on their blades. No. They fled from a whisper of something dark and terrifying and that had sent them blundering, stumbling through the tunnels, half dragging Aragorn with them for he could not keep up, his mortal blood demanding rest and their elven instincts afire with prescience. 

No one went there after and the news that Balin had thought to take back the dwarven kingdom had been met with silence in Imladris.

As if entranced, Elladan drew his dagger and the firelight glinted along its steel edge, caught the Fëanorian M on its hilt so it seemed molten and flowed. He stared at it for a moment and then looked at Elrohir. ‘Hold it.’ He held the dagger, hilt first, to Elrohir.

Slowly Elrohir took it. Almost immediately he felt the tingling like a charge building. ‘Have you felt that before?’ he asked astonished and curious. 

Elladan shook his head and held out his hand, took it back. ‘It is strange. It almost trembles.’ He held the dagger lightly in his hands and tilted it towards the firelight, squinting down the edge of the blade with one eye closed. ‘Do you see how the light seems to catch on the M?’ He laughed briefly and to Elrohir it did seem that the firelit rune was pouring and coiling about the hilt. ‘As if Maedhros himself were here to reclaim it!’ Elladan looked up and smiled recklessly. 

‘Fool,’ Elrohir said fondly, for Elladan had been obsessed with the tale of Maedhros from a young age when Erestor was filling their heads with tales of the First Age, to the vexation of their mother and the amusement of their father.

He stood and stretched and looked towards the horses. They were grazing hungrily and would need some hours. The rabbit was roasting nicely and this small brake of trees gave them shelter. ‘After this, we will not need to rest again. We will reach Phellanthir before nightfall.’ 

Elladan shot him a quick look and nodded with relief. ‘With luck we will find Erestor and Glorfindel before then and leave at dawn. We could be home within the week.’

Elrohir had just stooped to pull a whetstone from his saddle bag when a sharp cry floated on the air high above and he looked up to see a falcon fold its wings and stoop, plummeting through the air towards them.

Instinctively he pulled on a gauntlet and gave a low whistle, holding up his hand for the bird. As it approached him, the bird almost overreached itself but Elrohir, so experienced and taught by his grandfather to be soft-handed with falcons, caught it and gently righted the bird on his arm. He spoke soothingly to it.

Slowly, carefully he smoothed the falcon and stilled himself, let his thoughts drift and focus on water, on open plains and the wide blue skies…then he carefully opened himself to the falcon. 

Bloody meat, torn entrails ripped out by talons and beak. Hunger pierced the falcon’s belly. 

He should have thought of that. He leaned down and pulled a little rabbit offal that he had carefully put to one side to throw far from the camp and held it lightly, blood on his fingers he would have to wipe quickly lest the falcon seize that too.

He felt the falcon’s confusion for a moment, it was focused on its own hunger and tiredness, and then at his gentle probing, it remembered….round eyes not like a falcon, green like the flat grass not yellow….soft talons, not hooked and clawed…

Quickly it swallowed the bloody gobbet and he moved his free hand quickly before it tore into his own flesh in its hunger.

Ravenously it ate and then slowly its thoughts settled and it fluffed up its feathers and preened. Round eyes, green like grass, long thin feathers and no feathers…Elrohir recognised the features of his grandfather’s face. Giver of meat, succour, comfort, rest. He had a message. The falcon clenched its talons around Elrohir’s gauntleted hand softly and he felt the concern and urgency of his grandfather and the words he had so carefully placed in the falcon’s mind:

Seek my boys, my children. Tell them of danger. In the blasted tower, the ruin of all. A soul devoured, consumed. Lost. Return home swiftly and safely. I beg you, my dears. Do not forsake me now.

He felt the deep love Celeborn had for them; it was like being child again. Before everything went wrong. Wrapped in a soft blanket and sitting on Celeborn’s lap, head against his deep chest and the sound of his steady heartbeat soothing him, the rumble of his voice telling them a story….Slowly all the pressure eased, all the pain and the lines around his mouth, the grimness softened and he smiled very slightly.

But Celeborn warned them of danger indeed; a soul lost? Devoured? What could that mean?

He glanced at Elladan who, though he did not have Elrohir’s way, would have understood enough. 

Elladan was strung tightly as a bow, his eyes wide and fearful. He met Elrohir’s gaze. ‘I heard.’ Then he was on his feet and kicking over the fire to remove traces of their passing.

Elrohir inclined his head and looked back towards the bird. He bid it find food, hunt, rest, and return home for its work was done. The falcon shook itself as if from sleep and sprang into the air, wings outspread. It soared upwards and Elrohir watched it for a moment, the upward, straight path, the speed and power.

Elladan, uncharacteristically clumsy, threw Baraghur’s saddle over his withers. Baraghur looked back at him in surprise but stood patiently, and bent his head for the headstall. ‘Come, Elrohir. We must leave now,’ Elladan demanded.

Elrohir glanced at him and crouched, swiftly pulled the almost cooked rabbit from its spit and broke it open, tore cooked meat from the bones. Quickly he wrapped the greasy meat inside an empty lembas leaf and tied the twine around the whole package, shoved it back in his bag. He did not look up but heard Elladan’s impatience and anger as he swore quietly under his breath while he drew Baraghur’s girth tight and threw his saddlebags over the horse’s quarters. 

Elladan cursed his brother for his slowness then and threw himself astride Baraghur. Baraghur lifted his head and circled restlessly, catching his rider’s impatience and fear

Elrohir murmured softly to Barakhir as he placed the saddle on the horse’s back and heard him sigh. Both horses were tired from the crossing of the Hithaeglir, and quickly Elrohir delved into his pack and rummaged for a moment, drew out the leaf-wrapped lembas and broke a piece off. He fed half to Barakhir and then turned to give the rest to Baraghur. 

‘We do not know this danger, Elladan. What do you think it is?’ he asked, looking up. He asked to slow his brother down a little, to make him think before he galloped headlong into danger. 

‘Saruman? Nazgûl? I know not. When have you ever cared?’ Elladan circled Baraghur impatiently so the horse had to snatch at the lembas as he passed. ‘If you do not wish to join me, I will go alone,’ he warned. 

Elrohir knew he would, felt the turmoil within his brother; the calm blue peace that normally soothed him was like the sky before thunder, grey and louring with the pressure building, the fear for Erestor almost blinding him to reason. ‘You will never go alone,’ he answered fervently and swung up onto the saddle.

They rode hard and fast, pounding across the earth. They did not pause as they crossed the shallow ford of the Glanduin but fled across it. Icy water sprayed silver from their horses’ hooves in the cold air, sable cloaks streamed in the wind as did their black hair and horses’ tails. Silver gleamed from bit and sword and their silver-grey eyes were piercing bright, like their exiled ancestors.

Suddenly a wind swept over them, pulling Barakhir’s mane streaming out and tugging at Elrohir’s cloak. There was a thump on the wind like nothing he had heard before. A stench of dead meat wafted over him, the hot stink of rotting carcass, and daylight suddenly dimmed in the sky. It sent the horses wild and Barakhir shied and then surged forwards, flattened out at a gallop that was uncontrolled and panicked. The darkness passed but Barakhir did not stop, he galloped faster over the uneven earth, stumbling now and again and swerving when a bush or scrubby tree suddenly was in their path. Elrohir was aware that Baraghur galloped alongside and he sat deep and wrestled with Barakhir’s reins. Barakhir pulled back hard, fighting him and Elrohir shouted to him, trying to get his attention.

Another shadow crossed over them, a thump of something huge on the wind and they were plunged into twilight for a moment and then it passed. Winter daylight again.

And suddenly Barakhir swerved and galloped off to the right, a different path, crashing through the bushes and scrub and back towards the river. Ahead of them, Elrohir knew was a steep cliff and below that the water boiled and churned. If he could not stop Barakhir they would both plummet to their deaths. He could throw himself from his horse, save himself with no more than broken bones and bruises but he would not lose Barakhir this way! 

He leaned down and grabbed the left rein almost at the horse’s cheek and pulled his head around hard. Barakhir stumbled and went down on his knees throwing Elrohir so the cold and iron hard earth hit him with full force, knocking all the air from his lungs. He slid for a few yards, grit tearing his skin and felt his arm pulled so hard he thought it would come loose from the socket. 

He lay stunned for a second, hurting and then looked up to see Barakhir on his knees, head to the ground and flanks heaving, sweat drenched his neck. Elrohir scrambled to his feet, calling to Barakhir. ‘Easy my boy, easy. Barakhir, my friend. Steady. All right now.’ He made his voice low and reassuring. ‘Easy my lad. Steady now.’ Alarmed he saw that Barakhir’s eyes were wide and panicked, the whites showing. He was breathing hard, his mouth open and nostrils flared.

Elrohir scrambled over to Barakhir and stroked his face, his neck in long, steady strokes. He scratched his neck and withers, murmuring softly, watching the horse’s wide, frightened eyes and concentrating on looking to the side, breathing slowly, calm. He let his crimson warmth flood his fingers, hands as he stroked. He thought soothingly of calm meadows and gentle streams, and gradually Barakhir’s panicked breath slowed and he looked at Elrohir. 

Elladan too was dismounted and was jogging towards them, leading Baraghur who held his head up and alert, stepping high as if afraid to put his feet down. 

‘Did Barakhir fall? Is he all right?’ Elladan called. Baraghur gave a frightened, anxious whinny as if echoing Elladan’s panicked question. Even as he did, Barakhir surged to his feet and lowered his head to Elrohir, snuffling. 

‘What was that?’ Elladan asked as they drew close. The two black horses nosed each other anxiously, reassuring themselves. ‘I have never seen either of these two run from anything.’ 

Elrohir rubbed Barakhir’s head, his neck and then felt down his legs, checking his flanks. No injuries astonishingly. He walked the horse forwards a few yards and he did not limp.

‘We are both unscathed.’ He smiled reassuringly at his brother who clasped his arm and then looked away towards the river. The cliff was a matter of yards from them and he looked back in fear for what might have been. ‘I do not know what that was. But it did not want us.’

 

0o0o0

 

Glorfindel watched into the deepness of the night. Above him the stars wheeled overhead and high above Eärendil sailed Vingilot with the Silmaril set at its prow. 

So they said. 

It was a children’s story, he thought. He wondered where the Silmaril really was if not there. Erestor always said that the Valar had stolen Elwing’s Silmaril and kept it in Tirion in Aman. He had also said that Maedhros had taken both remaining Silmarils, that Maglor had not taken one. If that were true, did that mean that both went with him into the fire? he wondered. And then dismissed it because it did not matter either way. 

He turned his head towards the Mountains for the air was cold and filled with snow. All was utterly still and silent. Not a leaf stirred, not a twig broke under the foot of deer or fox. Only the soft breath of Erestor as he slept. 

No longer afraid of the shadows and threat that had crowded in his mind up in the Oromardë in Phellanthir, Glorfindel allowed himself to settle into the watch, letting his senses spread out. Away from the High Hall of Curvë, he no longer felt a heat that singed the air, that threatened to boil his blood and melt his bones. There was no Balrog and there was no Maedhros either. Both he and Erestor had merely been beguiled by the atmosphere of the place into seeing what was buried deepest in their hearts. He told himself that he pitied Erestor for he had deluded himself that his beloved lord was somehow beyond the mirror, somehow still…alive? He could not be. No one could have survived that plunge into fire as had been told. And so they had both conjured something that was not real.

So he told himself. So he convinced himself because the alternative was fear.

Gone midnight it was when Erestor stirred and awoke. He stifled a yawn and rose without a word and stood at the edge of the clearing, looking into the trees. 

After a moment, he turned his head and said, ‘Sleep.’

Glorfindel thought suddenly that he was indeed tired. He sighed and sat beside the fire. Then he wrapped himself in his cloak and pulled it over his head. Immediately sleep came upon him, deep and filled with dreams. Sudden sharp memories of another Age, another place flooded his dreams. Memories he had suppressed, had ruthlessly quashed for it had been a fall from grace, succumbing to something he had not known he wanted. No, he told himself, he did not want this but was beguiled by empathy and loss and, he admitted now in his own dreams, by intense loneliness. 

It had been during the Siege of Barad-dûr…a tent splashed with mud and its pennant torn. No guards.

There had been no guards because there were simply not enough of them left to spare and they spent every day battling Orcs and trolls and all of Sauron’s dreadful force. Why would you need guards? Anyone could kill you easily enough on the battlefield.

He made a noise to announce himself and then slowly pulled aside the tent flap and ducked within. It was simple compared with the pavilions of the Noldor, but the silk was strangely warm and dampened the noise outside so for a moment, it felt one could indeed forget the near only feet away.

The young man within looked up, his eyes red-rimmed undoubtedly from weeping and Glorfindel felt an immediate empathy for him. In his hand was a quill, the end had been bent and he had ink splashed on his fingers, and on the parchment he had spread out on the travelling writing desk perched precariously on his knees. A stained cup held down one corner and the other was held by a dagger but the parchment curled over it as if defiant, unruly. Lamplight caught on hair the colour of gold coins. It spilled over the Woodelf’s shoulders and down his back, pooled on the narrow camp bed on which he sat. Rich. Gold. Like Idril.

Glorfindel caught a sigh in his throat and stifled it.

Slate green eyes watched him warily, as all the Woodelves must, thought Glorfindel regretfully. None of them trusted the Noldor. They never had before but they felt they had a reason now. Oropher was dead and their grief could be heard, felt all over the Alliance camp. His son was the new King and here he sat, muddied, blood in his light leather armour that he had not even taken off yet, writing dispatches.

‘What do you want?’

Thranduil had not been any friendlier to his Noldor allies than his father had; both Oropher and Thranduil had listened, non too politely, to Gil-Galad’s plan, Oropher had said it would not work and then both had turned and strode away between the shining, armoured ranks of Noldor and Men. Now Thranduil’s tone was positively frosty. There was a bloody knife at his side, blood on his fingers, and a hastily, badly wrapped bandage around his chest. Like he had dressed it himself, thought Glorfindel. It was spotted with blood, a pattern emerging. Three slashes and a rough-cut circle.

‘I have messages from the High King.’ Glorfindel tried not to look at the bandage; he had heard that the silvans keened over the loss of Oropher with an extravagance that shocked the Noldor. Instead he bowed his head slightly and held out the scrolls, three. One from Gil, one from Cirdan and one from Celeborn, Thranduil’s kinsman. 

Thranduil snorted. ‘I do not have a High King.’ And then with a wracking sob that he tried to hide but could not, ‘I do not have a King.’ He bowed his head and for a moment, his shoulders shook. 

Glorfindel shifted, compassion moved him and he reached out to clasp the other’s broad and muscled shoulder. An archer like the best of his folk then. 

Strangely, Glorfindel found the same words in his mouth now as those he had spoken to Turgon in the aftermath of the Battle of Unnumbered Tears after Fingon’s death; long, long ago, when Gondolin was fair and filled with the sound of water and bells. Before the demon had come. ‘You must be King now. You must find whatever there is in you to lead your people. Grieve, yes. But you must lead them too.’

He thought that Thranduil though would shove him away, tell him to leave, how dare he…but instead Thranduil lifted his face, his beautiful, sculpted face made even lovelier with grief, and said, ‘How do you bear it?’

Glorfindel leaned forward and without a thought, without having ever felt a moment of lust for another man, he pressed his mouth over Thranduil’s.

The explosion of lust detonated through Glorfindel as he dreamed, remembered warm skin and the rich hair, those strange marking of the Woodelves on Thranduil’s skin, gold and green like Thranduil himself, the slate green eyes locked upon him, deep, knowing and filled with grief that, for a moment, he could forget in the glory of that love-making that Glorfindel had never known before or since… for it was not his way, nor did he desire men… until that moment. 

Rough hands stroked him to hardness, a demanding mouth on his, shoving him down, fumbling with buckles and belt, gripping so it hurt and then a hot, hot explosion like fire, like burning. Fierce pain that he had forgotten and then it was breathless and intense desire, pleasure, ecstasy that made the pain easier to bear.

There was no sweetness in the aftermath. Glorfindel was bemused, not ashamed but he had been thoroughly taken, used, and was now dismissed. He stood outside Thranduil’s tent, confused as he had not been for long ages, soreness now settling in his bones and flesh, and a light bruise on his heart. Like flame that excoriated the memory of his enemy and instead of pain or fear, he felt… renewed.

He had not seen Thranduil again except in battle, beautiful and sad, fierce and powerful. Glorfindel thought rarely of the encounter for it had awoken something in him that he did not know he had wanted. He forced himself to forget and smothered the groan that pushed itself up from his chest for Erestor was too close…He closed his eyes tightly, forcing himself to forget that mistake, that fall from grace. Was he not Glorfindel, beloved of the Valar, golden, untouchable, pristine? And he was so lonely that he envied Maedhros his forbidden love for had not he and Fingon loved deeply, passionately and without restraint?

 

0o0o

 

Erestor, standing at the edge of the clearing in the shadows of Phellanthir, watched while Glorfindel slept. He too was lost in memory, those intense and vivid memories of the past that defined him.

It was the aftermath of the Dagor Nírnaeth Arnoediad, The Battle of Unnumbered Tears. Later he would remember that it was his lord, Maedhros who dubbed it that in his bitterness and sorrow. Närmófinion had dragged himself from beneath his dead horse, struggled to his knees in the mud and blood and scarcely able to stand. All about him was devastation and he turned in horror, searching for the King, Fingon - whom his lord had entrusted to him, sending Närmó with Fingon on that cold clear day in Himring a scant two years before. 

It was only the scrap of silver and blue, fluttering in the hot and searing wind that drew his attention. And had it not, he could not have made out the bloody mess as a man… what had been a man. 

Fingon had been trampled into the mud. His limbs were splayed and at odd angles, like a broken doll. There was a bloody mush all over his chest and stomach and at first Närmófinion could not understand what he was looking at. Then he realised that Fingon’s sternum had been burst open, stamped upon by gigantic feet, and his organs, intestines, dragged from his body, pounded into the mud. His face was a bloody pulp. There was such hate in the utter obliteration of the man, an attempt to completely expunge his identity.

But Närmófinion could see gold braid gleaming defiantly through the bloody mud and he knew whose hand had twisted that gold through black silk hair and had cupped this unrecognizable face for a last tender kiss. Närmófinion’s heart swelled with such grief for his lord that he thought it too would burst upon the battlefield. How could he tell Maedhros his beloved’s fate? How could he deliver this final blow?

Around him were bodies as far as his eye could see; Elves, Men, horses, Orcs and goblins and some twisted misshapen creature he could not bear to look at.

There was no one else near. He looked about him, pain tearing down one side of his body, his arm useless and his leg would not respond. He crawled over to where Fingon lay. Only he could not describe his position as lying for so brutal had been his death. One hand reached out of the mud, splayed out as if he reached for something, someone, or protested. A ring was still upon it. The fierce ruby proclaimed to whom Fingon belonged, its red fire as unmistakable as its owner’s hair.

Närmófinion did not take it from him. Instead he struggled to pull the King’s sword from under the mess that had been Fingon. Then he bent and peeled a bloody scrap of silver-blue out of the wet mud. Fingon’s banner. Soaked in blood. Soaked. Still wet. 

There were none left on the battlefield but Orcs scavenging in gangs. They were gathered around something they had found and were squabbling over it. A pile of something indistinct, tattered. It groaned. Närmófinion froze. One of the Orcs laughed and the others jeered while the first Orc slowly drew a hatchet and stood over the tattered pile. Närmófinion’s heart leapt and he thought he might be sick but he could do nothing. Nor could he escape for he was so injured himself it was merely time before the Orcs found him too. But he decided now that he would not leave the ring to be so easily stolen by Orcs so he carefully, gently pulled the ring from what remained of Fingon’s cold hand and shoved it beneath his armour and into his shirt beneath. Perhaps they would not find it. Perhaps they would not find him…

A horse was cantering, frightened, riderless and lost, reins flapping around its neck. It cantered first towards the Orcs and then threw up its head and careered off, terrified. One of the Orcs carelessly threw a spear and it grazed the horse’s flank. The horse put its head down and bolted away, towards Närmófinion. 

Taking his only chance, Närmófinion struggled to his feet, leaning heavily Fingon’s sword. The horse shied at first but he called out softly to it and it came towards him trembling. As slowly and discreetly as he could, Närmófinion caught the pommel of the saddle and tried to swing himself up but a bolt of pain thrust through him and he almost collapsed. The Orc that had thrown the spear was lurching after the horse and suddenly saw Närmófinion. It gave a shout of jubilation and started running. Other Orcs looked up now and seeing the prospect of sport in both horse and Elf, came running after the first Orc. The horse circled nervously but its heart was true and it did not flee. Groaning in pain, Närmófinion flung himself over the horse and holding on for his life, not even astride, he bid the horse run. And it did.

And so he found himself a survivor of the Nírnaeth Arnoediad. He and the horse stumbled into the scattered and sorry remains of the army of Gondolin and there he had met Glorfindel for the first time. The Elves of Gondolin had tried to persuade him to return with them, that the battle had been a rout, that though the Fëanorians had fled to Himring, it was already was lost, was bound to fall next. They said that Morgoth would not countenance its survival after he had routed Fingon and though they did not speak it, it seemed common belief that Morgoth was focused and determined to vanquish Maedhros. It was almost personal. They did not seem to understand that Gondolin was by no means invincible and that for him, Gondolin would be a cage. And anyway, Närmófinion knew his duty and later, and still stunned and lost in grief, he limped up the steep stone steps of Himring. 

Maglor caught at him as he passed, himself still bloody from battle and wide-eyed with horror...because he too had seen what had happened.

‘Do not tell him.’ Maglor begged him, Maglor who loved beyond reason. ‘Närmó, I beg you....do not tell him.’

But it was too late to back out now despite Maglor’s haggard face, his beseeching eyes. 

Within the stone walls of his chamber that had almost become a cell, low firelight caught in copper-bronze hair, stroked it like Maedhros’ father had stroked fire into the jewels that brought his own destruction and that of all his sons. Maedhros turned grey eyes to Närmófinion that were filled with an other-worldly light, one might say silver but it would not do them justice. But this time, in them was a deep well of emptiness. Soul-void. And though Maedhros had not been broken by his grandfather’s murder by Morgoth, or his father’s, and he had emerged from Angband as steel, a tempered blade, it was Fingon’s death that broke him now. 

Not a sound passed his lips.

He simply turned at the sound of Närmófinion opening the door. Närmófinion’s boots scuffed on the cold flagstones. He halted, standing uselessly by, unable to speak and Maedhros simply looked at him. If Maglor had already seen that Fingon was dead, how much sharper Maedhros’ gaze?

The moment seemed frozen and then Maedhros forgot himself in that moment and reached out with his missing hand to steady himself. His arm missed the mantle above the fire and he stumbled.

‘It is not true!’ Maglor pushed past Närmófinion to reach his brother. ‘It has not been confirmed. Närmó, tell him you could be mistaken.’

But the scrap of blue and silver Närmófinion clutched in his hand was stained with Fingon’s blood and he held it out, wordless. Maedhros reached for it in a dream and the long, elegant fingers of his one hand took it so gently and sifted it against his fingertips. Unbearably, he brought it to his lips, his nose and smelled the blood, and closed his eyes. 

Ages on from the Tears, Erestor found his face was wet for it seemed no more distant than yesterday; Himring’s bleak granite walls had done nothing to hide the even bleaker mountains in the distance where lay Angband. For that short span of time before Himring too fell, Maedhros would stand in the bitter cold letting the wind stream through his long burnished copper hair, and staring with hatred and futile anger at the distant peaks that ripped the sky like black teeth. In these unguarded moments, his scarred face revealed all his pain; it was like looking upon his soul now that Fingon was dead. 

Everywhere he carried that blue and silver scrap of Fingon’s banner against his heart and punished himself every day, every hour, every minute that Fingon did not live. 

It was the start of his slow descent into madness, that ended like a shooting star in flames and a burst of light. Erestor knew the last thing Maedhros would have seen before the flames engulfed him, would not have been the hard brightness of the Silmarils, but a tiny, threadbare scrap of blue-silver.

Tears unnumbered indeed, Námo you old bastard, he swore. 

He heard a muffled groan. Glorfindel too was deep in dreams of the past and Erestor thought it a nightmare riding Glorfindel into the Cristhorn, into dreams of his own death upon the mountain, incinerated by the demon of shadow and flame…But it was not. 

Slate-green eyes flashed at him, no, at Glorfindel- this was Glorfindel’s dream - and hair the colour of gold coins gleamed in candlelight. But there was something familiar in the slant of the eyes, in the dark brows…

Erestor did not move for in spite of his enviable and hard won reputation, he did not pry into the secrets of his friends. He brushed his hand over his eyes and turned away from Glorfindel and those dreams that melted into Erestor’s like the tide. 

He turned back to his own thoughts, picking at them like an old scab that would not heal. Fool, he chided himself. You are still dreaming of Himring, wishing you could change things. What could you have done? But even as he thought it, there was a flutter in his belly, an excitement. There was something in the mirror up in the high hall of Celebrimbor’s curvë, something more than just the reflection of Glorfindel’s secret fear

Dawn was breaking over the Hithaeglir, a thin line of light between the jagged, peaked horizon and night. Above him the sky seemed very dark and Eärendil sailed down towards the West. 

He smiled grimly and made his customary obscene gesture at the star. ‘Go on, fuck off back to the Nadorhuanrim*,’ he muttered because he did not wish to waken Glorfindel just yet, and not with such blasphemy. ‘Keep your fucking Silmaril you cursed dog, and we will keep your children and have the better end of the bargain. Not that you ever cared about them,’ he added more bitterly than usual. 

It was after all, the only Silmaril not recovered by Maedhros. Erestor wondered if it could ever be recovered, and if it were, would it mean the Oath was truly fulfilled? And would those Exiles be released who had been condemned to the Dark? Or more likely kept imprisoned by that old goat, Námo, thought Erestor blasphemously, for the Valar had ever wanted control over the fiery and spirited House of Fëanor. One thing Erestor was certain of however, was that his lord, Maedhros would cut off his other arm and all his limbs and willingly go into the Dark before accepting the Doomsman’s summons to his Halls of Waiting. He could not say the same for the other sons of Fëanor for he did not know them so well. But he hoped that Maedhros was not alone in the Dark with Morgoth and his beasts, as he had been in Angband. As he had been at the very end.

Turning back towards the fire, he threw a few sticks onto the low-banked flames, trying to push back the swell of grief that almost overwhelmed him. Needing something to do, he reached for the tin cup that Glorfindel had left by the side of the fire. He flipped open his water-skin and poured water into the cup, and then pushed it carefully into the ash. He fumbled in his pouch for a few leaves of athelas and dropped them into the water.

He used to make this for Elrond and Elros when they could not sleep, when the nightmares came but it was Maglor who, long before, had shown him how to steep the athelas in the water so he could make it for Maedhros when the pain came, and the heartache.

He was leaning over, head bowed and eyes closed, remembering and weeping shamelessly, when he felt a hand gently on his shoulder. Glorfindel. He must have risen and Erestor not even notice; some sentry, he told himself. But we still live.

‘You were dreaming of Fingon,’ Glorfindel said so kindly that it made Erestor want to bury his head against his friend’s shoulder. ‘I saw what you dreamed. Come, sip this. It will revive you.’

Miruvor of course, thought Erestor and did not refuse. The taste exploded sweetly on his tongue but could not banish the bitterness in his mouth.

‘Forgive me.’ He was ashamed. Rightly so. Not of weeping, but of his goading Glorfindel the evening before for no more reason that he wanted to see that smooth, unruffled surface shatter like glass, so he had become sucked into the age-old arguments that he thought had been long ago exhausted between them. ‘It is this place,’ he said by way of apology, although he knew that was not quite true. It was always near the surface with him, but with Glorfindel it was buried deep, he had had to dig harder to uncover it. Like treasure, his old loyalties and passion.

Glorfindel handed him the tin cup from where Erestor had lodged it amongst the stones of the fire-pit. He smiled as he pushed it back towards Glorfindel. ‘I warmed that for you. You cried out in your sleep.’

Glorfindel took the cup and sipped it once, then pushed it back towards Erestor. ‘So you did not see what I dreamed?’ he asked faintly, and Erestor shook his head, ignoring the slight flush to his cheeks and the wariness in the question for Erestor had already glimpsed slate-green eyes and hair the colour of gold coins; he just did not know to whom they belonged. He had never met Idril and there was a familiarity to the shape of the eyes that he could not quite place.

The tea was sharp and hot and brought Erestor back to himself.

‘When you are ready,’ Glorfindel said quietly, far more himself, thought Erestor, than he had been since they had arrived here, ‘we will go back.’

Erestor smiled and raised his eyebrows at himself ironically. ‘I feel as if I have been finding my way by moonlight and suddenly it is dawn and I know what it is we seek for I have dreamed it.’ 

Glorfindel opened his mouth to reply but a tremendous wind suddenly blasted through the treetops and even the solid oaks creaked. A thump on the wind like Ulmo’s storm soughing in the sails of white ships had them both throwing themselves to the ground, rolling away from the brush, flicking up earth to cover themselves in soil, against fire, against the flames that might blast them, burying themselves shallowly. Fear froze stiff the hair on their heads. 

…It was the silence before dragonfire and then the great wind. Colossal armoured wings whumped down on the wind. And sudden fire…a blast of heat roaring from the belly of the dragon, sunlight drowned by the great shadows as they passed overhead. 

No! It could not be? Not after all these long Ages past? Erestor’s heart pounded in his chest, and he waited for fire to plunge into the wood, for great armoured talons to smash into the earth, ploughing up the wood and stone like huge blades, for the immense destruction. He clutched his hands over his head. Around him small twigs and pine cones fell as the pines were dragged and tousled and tossed by the wind.

Then it was gone.

He kept his head hidden in his arms, pressing himself into the earth. 

There was nothing. Silence and then the slow sounds of the woods crept back. He cracked open an eye. An ant went past busily, holding something in its jaws too big for it and yet it managed. Small feet pattered and scurried through the dry leaves on the forest floor. He heard Glorfindel shift nearby.

Slowly Erestor looked up. 

Scudding overhead were storm clouds, so that though the dawn was breaking it still felt like night. Far away a flash of lightning skittered across the sky and there was distant thunder over the mountains.

He heard Glorfindel breathing, then a scrape of metal. He must have drawn his sword, thought Erestor. He had not even drawn his; it was futile against a dragon.

But this had not been a dragon, he thought. There was not the malicious smile that grazed against your awareness that you got with dragons, the ironic amusement or the sense that it enjoyed fear. This was blunt, unintelligent.

Erestor glanced across at Glorfindel. His companion was as pristine as always but his face was dismayed and he breathed slowly as if to rid himself of images before him. Erestor knew what he saw; tall white towers smashed into rubble, fire blasting through the colonnaded squares and courtyards, a dark rabble of goblins and orcs and worse, clambering over tumbling walls to kill and maim and rape.

‘I thought a dragon at first. But it had not the smell or feel of dragon.’ Erestor sat down heavily near their still burning fire and fished out the tin cup from where it had fallen amongst the dry leaves. The athelas leaves were still there, stuck at the bottom amongst the dregs but the tea had drained away. He sniffed it.

‘No. That was no dragon. Something less… formed,’ Glorfindel said, puzzled. He dug the point of his sword into the earth a little, lifting the dead leaves as if looking for something. 

No. Erestor agreed silently. Dragons stank of brimstone and metal. This was something else; a lingering smell of rotting flesh. 

‘Is this some new monstrosity?’ he asked. ‘Not just a freak wind carrying a stink of carrion?’ He pulled his cloak about his shoulders, suddenly cold. 

‘I know not.’ Glorfindel doused the small flames of their fire and kicked the ash over what still smouldered. He swung his bow over his shoulder and shifted his sword belt slightly. 

Erestor cast a look about their small campsite. ‘It barely matters that we hide our traces,’ he said, feeling the shock recede and his purpose reassert itself. ‘If anyone is interested they already know we are here.’ He loosened his own sword in its sheath and grinned at Glorfindel, though it was more than a little forced. ‘Perhaps our presence here is unwelcome.’ He spoke deliberately as if surprised and hurt. ‘Perhaps Pitya-angu has visitors.’ He rolled his shoulders, wanting battle then, wanting to force the sorrow and loss from his heart with battle and blood instead. He wanted revenge. ‘Good. I need something to get my teeth into.’ He gnashed his teeth exaggeratedly then and grinned at Glorfindel provocatively. 

He could see Glorfindel resist rolling his eyes heavenward, and he sheathed his sword instead. Inwardly Erestor steeled himself for he was in truth not at all as brave as his words. 

‘Then there is indeed a reason that Sauron does not wish us to enter the Tower again,’ Glorfindel called back over his shoulder for already he was striding out of the clearing and heading back towards the tower. 

Erestor stared for a moment at the broad back that tapered to narrow hips, the long golden hair that poured down his back and he felt his chest swell. He loved Glorfindel. He smiled to himself. He should tell him really, just to see the look of horror that would spread over that lovely face. Oh, he did not think of Glorfindel as a lover. No, he loved him for his courage and his purity. It gave Erestor hope, and comfort. And gave him courage too.

So he settled his own sword at his hip and followed Glorfindel back into the ruined tower where he was sure the Nazgûl waited, and where his own beloved lord too was hidden somewhere, somehow in that dark glass in the abandoned high hall of Celebrimbor’s secret knowledge. He pushed the knowledge of Glorfindel’s own bane to the back of his mind, not wanting to face the thought that if his own desires were real that perhaps Glorfindel’s fears might be too.

0o0o

 

* Elrond and Elros are Eärendil’s children who were fostered by Maglor and Maedhros when both their parents abandoned them.  
Nandohuanrim: a hugely insulting term implying ones who go back on their word, liars, dogs, cowards and other insults. It’s considered blasphemous amongst polite elven society but as we know, Erestor is certainly not that.


	8. Into the Past

MANY apologies for being gone for so long. Work commitments and just a big block on trying to get all the pieces in the right place and in the right order. It should not be so long a wait for the next chapter. 

Thanks for all the reviews- they really help to keep me writing and for the favourites and kudos on Ao3. Special thanks to Spiced Wine whose fab story, Dark Star, gave me an idea and whose work I reference in this.

Beta: Many thanks as always to Anarithilien.

 

Chapter 8: Into the Past

In the thin morning light, Glorfindel strode up the narrow trail that they had walked the day before, following Erestor’s tall, lean form as he almost loped ahead. Forcing himself to unclench his fist over the hilt of his sword, Glorfindel thought, as he always did, that it never quite fit his hand as had Rilmapentë*, but that blade was long gone, melted in boiling, raging fire. And though Eruvatúrë* was Aman-forged and blessed by the Valar, the smithing was never as good as that of the Exiled Noldor. He sighed. Everything in Phellanthir dragged memory from him, forced him to think upon things long and best forgotten. 

‘Holy Mountain of Shit! Something stinks like Námo’s’ arsehole.’ 

Glorfindel closed his eyes and considered asking for forgiveness but thought better of it for Erestor would almost certainly do it again within ten minutes. 

But when he drew close to where Erestor had stopped, he realised there was an evil smell that coated the back of his throat like the stench of a rotting corpse. Erestor had stopped and was staring out over the treetops, eyes wide.

‘What do we do? Go back and investigate if that thing that flew overhead is below, or press on?’ he said slowly. ‘I do not think it was a dragon, though it sounded like one. But this stinks and dragons have an entirely different stink.’ 

Glorfindel remembered; brimstone and hot metal; the absolute silence before the blast of fire, heat that melted stone, boiled blood. ‘It is no dragon,’ he agreed. ‘Does it present a greater threat to Imladris than whatever happened to Rhawion? I think not. We press on,’ he said decisively. ‘We will hunt it in our return.’

Erestor stood on the edge of the trail that wound high along the cliff face. ‘I do not want Niphredil being eaten. He is a sweet thing and I cannot bear to think of him suffering.’

Glorfindel spared him a dubious glance. He would have said many things about Erestor’s impossible, grumpy horse, but sweet was not one of them. ‘Asfaloth will have gone away from here,’ he said as he began to make his way towards the ruined Tower. ‘He will have heard this winged creature, whatever it was, and be aware. I am sure your beast will do likewise.’

Erestor followed Glorfindel though he looked doubtful and a little upset. ‘Niphredil is not always very clever,’ he admitted and took three longer strides to catch up with Glorfindel. ‘I hope he sticks with Asfaloth. The last time I told him to stay close until I needed him, he ran home. With luck he has already gone home,’ he said uneasily. ‘Do you think whatever it was is hunting them?’

Glorfindel did not stop. ‘No. They are too clever. It will pursue easier prey I think, if that is what they do. The horses will be far from here.’ He spoke with conviction for Asfaloth was an intelligent beast and loyal. He would have gone from here, or hidden. Niphredil however, was as stupid and stubborn a beast as he had ever met.

They walked on in silence for a moment and then, from behind him, Erestor said, ‘Do you think it a cold drake perhaps?’ 

“I do not know.’ Glorfindel glanced back over his shoulder, reluctant to halt now that they were close. ‘There is naught here for a cold drake, no treasure, no hunting- or what there is is sparse. Whatever it is may well be far from here already.’

‘Then you are determined that we find what there is in the Tower that Sauron wishes to keep from us.’

‘Yes,’ Glorfindel said, although he felt cold at the thought and a foreboding settled in his heart.

This is the edge of my own fear, he thought. 

No matter what Erestor said and his own rational and reasonable logic, he could not shake off memories of the Valarauki. He did not remember every cut and slash of that battle, but he remembered that sense of absolute certainty that he would die upon the Cristhorn. How could he forget that moment that Idril had turned to him, her lovely eyes wide with fear and looked at him as she had never looked at him before? As if she had never really seen him until then. In that moment, she knew the secret of his heart; how he had watched her and yearned for her, and never approached her for he knew her heart was not his to take. 

It never had been. 

In her eyes was gratitude and understanding and love, but not the love he wanted. She loved him for sparing her and her family, Eärendil, and of course, Tuor. But she did not love him for himself.

‘That Tuor,’ came a voice that seemed disembodied and less real than the memory of Idril, her long hair like spun gold lifting in the wind. 

What?’ He turned his head slowly towards Erestor. 

‘He was an ugly bastard,’ he said, grinning and he wiped his forehead as if he were hot. ‘Never knew what Idril saw in him. And hairy! Námo’s balls, he was hairy. Perhaps that was what she liked about him?’

Utterly still now, Glorfindel narrowed his piercing blue eyes and fixed them upon Erestor’s. ‘You will stop.’ His fist bunched in Erestor’s tunic. ‘Now.’

He spoke slowly and emphatically and noted with some satisfaction that the amber eyes widened ever so slightly. ‘I will not fight you as well as whatever else might be in there waiting for us.’ He brought all the Ages of command to bear upon Erestor. ‘And if you do not cease, I will seek out this creature that is not a dragon and throw you to it,’ he snapped, hoping it had teeth. A lot. And that they were sharp and it was not too fussy, for he thought Erestor would be tough and stringy, he thought as loudly, strongly, as emphatically as he could.

‘Oh I assure you, I am.’ Erestor laughed slightly and instead of pulling out of Glorfindel’s grasp, he pushed against him so they stood chest to chest. ‘Tough and stringy as an old weasel.’ 

He met Erestor’s amber stare and for a moment the light reflected back as it would a wolf and Glorfindel found the hairs on the back of his neck rise slightly. He was not afraid of Erestor. No. He trusted Erestor. 

‘You still think it is not Maedhros? You wonder still if it is the Valarauku?’ Erestor stared at him, his strange amber eyes intent and serious. ‘Do not fear. It is not your Balrog, Laurëlindë. It is Maedhros. I have seen him, felt him. Ever since we arrived. Even you have dreamed him.’ 

‘Anyone who does not fear a Balrog is a fool,’ he replied, clenching his fist about his sword. ‘But it is not Maedhros either. Your misplaced loyalty to him blinds you.’

‘Well I suppose if anyone knows about misplaced loyalty it would be you, Laurëlindë, with your misplaced loyalty to Turgon the Unutterably Turgid. And that is one of the more polite names I have heard him called.’

‘And that would have been in Himring by your noble lord,’ Glorfindel snapped and then he shook his head. ‘We have been through this,’ Glorfindel stepped back and deliberately breathed. Slowly. As he had on the battlefield of the Tears, as he had when he saw the great shadows wheeling silently in the skies over Gondolin, as he had when he stood looking back at Idril as he took the path back towards Gondolin where the Valarauku waited, cracking his whip of flame… 

Ruinátorë…

Glorfindel ruthlessly shoved the memory away, pushed it back into the darkness of his other life and locked it away, focused on now. Without another word, he turned and led the way into the ruined Tower of Phellanthir, where the Mirror stood in dust and silence of Ages, and where his fear trembled like harpstrings, sending waves out into the Dark.

0o0

Erestor’s foot kicked against something away on the darkness across the floor. It must be more glass, he thought, for the floor was in darkness and shadow. He wondered briefly why Sauron had allowed all the mirrors, but the one they had found above in the upper hall, to be destroyed so wantonly. 

Glorfindel was disappearing into the darkness, his outline dimly seen in the grey morning light that filtered through the cracks in the roof. 

Their footsteps were soft in the dust that coated the floor. Another crack as Erestor trod down too heavily on something. He thought at first it was glass again but it was the wrong shape, more like a dried branch. Glorfindel turned his head at the sound and cast a glance back at Erestor.

Erestor stopped suddenly, looking down into the shadows that hid the floor. He felt a sudden nausea and did not stoop; these were no dried branches. How could he ever have even thought that? Maybe flotsam from the long ago destruction of the city. But not wood. No, it was not wood. The brittleness of ancient bones.

‘Tread carefully my friend,’ Glorfindel said gently and held out his hand to Erestor. For a moment, Erestor thought about refusing but they had come too far together for such delicacy and he clung to his friend shamelessly.

‘I had not thought…How could there be anything left after so long?’ he gasped and suddenly it seemed the dust rose up and he walked amongst ghosts of those slain by the cruel hand of Sauron. 

When Erestor had arrived at the third city with expectation of a welcome, good conversation, and some drunken reminiscing, he had not expected the city to impress him as much as it did. It was an incongruous mix of artisans, craft -folk warriors who stayed loyal to the House of Fëanor and scholars of curvë. After the stratified society of Gil-Galad’s court and city, Erestor had felt himself breath deeply, for it reminded him of Himring with its practical, homogenous mix and sense of purpose. Here was an air of suppressed excitement of discovery, a busy hubbub of voices, and not all Elves; there were Men and Dwarves amongst them too. Narvi had dwelled there for a while until death took him. They said it was after Narvi’s death that Annatar had arrived.

Erestor looked up at the desolate ruin it was now and remembered again how light had filled the space like a physical entity, a warm, golden light that could not come from any lamp. He let his fingers drift over the pitted yellow stone and remembered how it had looked… like sunlight filled the air. If Menegroth had been still and starlit like the night, Phellanthir was like day and filled with a rich and golden light like warmth itself. Above him the domes were cracked and fallen, but once those vaulted roofs had been cut through with bejewelled glass, coloured with molten jewels, garnets and sapphires and emeralds. He had floated on light.

Now in the plunging darkness, he felt his feet crunch on shattered glass and felt such sadness that the crafted illusion, that homage to light, had been utterly destroyed, desecrated and every single soul slaughtered…The image of Celebrimbor’s last moment that he had glimpsed in Glorfindel’s mind struck him like a blow. Too much!

Sauron, Annatar had been here when Erestor had first visited. The thought made him feel sick. Knowing that Gil-Galad had rebuffed Annatar, that Elrond and he himself had both agreed, it had more than alarmed him to find the stranger who declared himself like Glorfindel, from Aman, sent to help. 

Erestor glanced ahead watched Glorfindel begin to ascend the wide sweep of stairs that had somehow survived the desecration and time. A faint glimmer of light shone from him and glinted in his hair. He looked much as Annatar, in that Annatar too was the embodiment of masculine beauty; taller than most elves even, lithe and lean, one knew there was a wiry strength beneath the unimposing craftsman’s tunic – and the shirt he wore beneath the tunic was silk - not just silk but very fine. His simple leather boots were deceptively simple. In fact, that had been how Erestor had summed him up; deceptively simple. More deceptive. His warnings had fallen on deaf ears for Celebrimbor was too caught up by then in his latest project…and he mourned Narvi’s loss and that had made him vulnerable.

Late summer it had been and the air was warm. Erestor sat on a low chair, comfortable as only the carpenters and designers of Eregion could make it, a glass dangled from his long fingers, its full bowl half filled with some delicious sprit that smelled a little of flowers and junipers. Unbelievably, there were chips of ice in the bowl and slices of some sort of green, sharp fruit and basil over which another drink had been poured that fizzed and frothed. Erestor stared at him in wonder and sipped, then drank it. 

Celebrimbor laughed and patted his hand to make him pause. ‘It is from the East. But far more potent that you would think.’ There had been little dainties of some sort of sugary jelly or candy that had melted in his mouth and Erestor really did consider abandoning everything he had sworn and moving to Phellanthir. Celebrimbor’s silver-grey eyes moved quickly over Erestor’s face and settled on his mouth, as if he knew what Erestor was thinking.

I will die happy if you kill me now! he had exclaimed with his usual exaggeration, flirtatious as always, maybe a little provocative even. 

Do not die just yet, Celebrimbor smiled slowly, and smoothed a hand through his auburn hair, but there was the slightest tremble in it and Erestor mentally kicked himself. Hard.

He leaned forwards and touched Celebrimbor’s hand briefly. ‘I am sorry to hear about Narvi,’ he said simply and plainly. 

Celebrimbor looked away across the lawns and gardens. ‘It is strange to think I will never see him again. Do you think they go to Aulë across the Sea to dwell in the Seven Halls as their stories tell?’ For a moment there was such longing in his voice that Erestor wondered if some of the more preposterous tales were true; but he immediately dismissed them. It was hard enough to believe a dwarf and an elf could be friends at all.

I have something I wish to show you. It is a secret though. I can show you only part…the part I wish Erenion to know about. He grinned, and Erestor laughed. It was not hard to guess that he was also there to bring intelligence to Gil-Galad; it would be strange if he did not. But Celebrimbor knew too that Erestor was loyal to his House and would do nothing to damage or harm him. Not a hair on his head.

‘Are you ready to join me here yet?’ Celebrimbor asked letting his eyes slide to the brooch on Erestor ‘s tunic, a silver, pointed Fëanorian star. ‘Ah,’ he sighed. ‘Of course you are sworn to protect the children of that damned woman.’ Celebrimbor looked away then, eyes distant and full of memory. ‘I still cannot understand how she fled with the Silmarils, abandoning her children. She cannot have known then, but she must certainly have believed that Maedhros would kill them.’

‘The stories, my lord, are untrue.’

Celebrimbor had waved it away, Of course he knew, even secured and kept free of the taint of the Oath by his careful uncles, the rumours and fanciful stories of Elwing had reached him. ‘Not just untrue, but ridiculous. How she could she have held onto the blessed jewel if she was a seagull? In her beak? For gulls do not have claws. It is as silly as the story of Fingon taking his harp to search for Maedhros, and singing to him,’ Celebrimbor said with bitter amusement. ‘Anyone who knew Fingon would have known he was armed to the teeth and silent as a cat. But he listened to his heart, and the Song.’ He glanced at Erestor then and Erestor saw that he had understood everything. ‘No one who saw them could have any doubt, their Song was so entwined…’

Both had fallen silent then and this was the pattern of their conversation every time they met; remembering the beloved dead. Trying to comprehend. To resolve. Erestor was not sure if it ever did any good. 

He had glanced at the balcony then and into the gardens that were scented with jasmine and honeysuckle still, even so late in the year. A sense of power thrust itself upon Erestor and there was Annatar, quite suddenly. Like the wind he had arrived. He was dressed in a simple tunic and shirt, breeches and boots, his long black hair tied back with a leather thong like Fëanor had done, as Curufin… and there Erestor saw the resemblance; he was not only dressed as they, but looked like them, grey eyes, full mouth, clever hands…

‘Are you luring him to join us?’ The voice was low and comfortable, pleasant, alluring even. ‘It would be useful to us –your knowledge is well known, your cunning mind… were you not called cunning flame by Nelyafinwë…’ A calculated mistake, for Erestor had winced and Celebrimbor reacted, both instinctively, intuitively, expecting the reproof, but Maedhros was long gone and could no longer object. ‘Oh I am sorry- I knew him oversea…’ 

‘Erestor?’

He realised that Glorfindel had been calling to him and shook himself. ‘I am here,’ he said and stepped carefully through the unseen debris strewn over the floor to the foot of the wide staircase upon which Glorfindel waited.

‘You are too much in the past,’ Glorfindel said quietly. ‘We must be aware now for we do not know if the Nazgûl has returned…’ He did not say but Erestor thought the Nazgûl had been well and truly vanquished and had fled back to Sauron. 

‘That may be so, but perhaps Sauron has sent a more deadly enemy against us,’ Glorfindel whispered. ‘We do not know yet what that mirror does.’

‘When Celebrimbor showed me this place, the light had split into the helyanwë,’ Erestor remembered. ‘But he kept saying that was not the wonder. He called it   
Ilweranta. He said the colours were simply a manifestation of the wonder he had discovered. He had said discovered emphatically, like the nuance was important; not invented…But Annatar was there and he did not want Celebrimbor telling me more. He contrived to keep it to a discussion of the mirrors and the way the light worked.’ Erestor said, still unable to completely understand, to forgive himself for being duped by Sauron. How could he not have known the cruel malice in the black heart of such a one? There had been those who warned him, indeed he himself had conveyed those warnings to Celebrimbor. But Celebrimbor was his father’s son, his grandfather’s heir indeed. His curiosity and thirst of curvë was all encompassing. Later Erestor realised that Celebrimbor had been bereft and vulnerable; none of them had realised how much Narvi meant to Celebrimbor, nor how he would grieve his dear friend. But Sauron did. Oh he had used that to his advantage indeed.

Erestor shook his head at his own uselessness and glanced up. Glorfindel caught his eye and he knew that his friend had understood, seen everything through the strange power in this place. It was useful, he thought with the calm, rational part of his mind, and followed Glorfindel up the stairs where the air became thinner, tighter.

Now the darkness opened like a mouth and Erestor knew they approached the Oromardë. Their footsteps were dulled by the dust on the floor, soft underfoot, muffling all sound. Devouring it, Erestor found himself thinking, for this is where they had found Rhawion, and lost him. The site of their failure. He felt Glorfindel’s thoughts too, his self-recrimination and the harshness of his own criticism, but he said nothing; they both deserved it.

Ahead of them, thin grey light that filtered into the dim, silent hall. Not light split into colour, for the prisms were long gone. This was just thin daylight threading its way through the gaps in the rock, in what had once been the marble, carved roof, and striking gashes in the darkness so daylight bled onto the floor, onto the smashed glass. The air though was thin, and he felt his lungs starved as if he were very deep underground…looking at his hand felt dreamlike and as if he were not quite here. He wondered if perhaps this strangeness and the visions were because dreams had power, could become manifest? Perhaps that was why he saw Maedhros and Glorfindel saw the Valarauku?

He caught Glorfindel’s elbow suddenly. ‘Perhaps I should go alone.’

Glorfindel turned to him, his cool blue eyes focused intently. ‘Why do you suddenly say this? Do you think me afraid?’

Erestor barked a short laugh. ‘ Never!’

It drew a brief smile from Glorfindel and he turned and strode off into the dim grey light as if he had never known a moment’s fear. Around the edges of the grey light, shadows clung in the corners and darkness shifted. A thin black shroud fluttered and the grey light skimmed an iron crown.

 

0o0o

 

Approaching from the mountains, the track swerved hard to the right and towards The Angle. It was a route used by the few hardy merchants and Rangers who still braved Caradhras. But they met no one in this bleak winter cold. 

They cut away from the old track and across the heathland and moor to avoid taking another two days. Neither Elladan nor Elrohir wished to rest. Brambles curled around them and tore at their cloaks, the wetland had crept up to the very edge of the old city. Marsh and bog squelched beneath their feet and it was with utter relief that they found the grey road, broken, and great slabs of granite upended as if the earth itself had been in tumult, but long ago.

They arrived mid-morning in the shadow of Phellanthir, for the winter sun was low in the sky and never seemed to climb above the height of the tower, so it cast long shadows. The trees clustered together as if in fear and the thick brambles tore at their cloaks and tripped the horses as they passed. Like some fairytale. thought Elladan. His anxiety for Erestor had settled into a sharp ache that did not ease though they were close now.

He could already be dead, he thought with panicked fear, but Elrohir was holding him steady and he knew better than to blunder ahead with no regard for danger.

Soon they found an old campfire on the banks of the river. It was several days old, perhaps a week and had been built in a dwarvish pattern. ‘Gimli’s work,’ they agreed. It was evident though that the camp had been abandoned in haste and no care taken to hide it. They found traces of horses later, and then the carefully hidden saddles and bridles of their friends.

‘Asfaloth will find Barakhir and Baraghur,’ Elrohir said. ‘But Niphredil has probably gone home by now. I have never known a more disloyal and cowardly horse. Erestor spoils him.’ But it was not unkindly said. 

Elladan leaned over the hidden saddles and noted how carefully Glorfindel’s elegant and simply decorated saddle was placed and Erestor’s seemingly thrown, its more elaborate and defiant eight-pointed star emblazoned on the skirt. A surge of panic hit him and he instinctively clasped the hilt of his dagger.  
In the shadows of Phellanthir the knife was heated, and although it did not burn his skin, he felt a flame of excitement burning through him as if he rode to meet a lover, the butterfly excitement in the pit of his belly, the flutter of adrenaline along his nerves. He glanced at Elrohir and said, ‘My blade is warm. Trembling almost. As you say Aícanaro does when battle is near.’

Elrohir shot him a sideways look, alarm mixed with interest. ‘Do you think it denotes some unknown danger?’ He thought for a while and then said, ‘The creature yesterday? Do you think it warns of dragons? A cold drake perhaps.’

Elladan pursed his mouth. There was a cold malice but where a cold drake had cunning, so Glorfindel had told them many times, the beast that had passed over felt merely savage and hungry. It did not have an intelligence of its own.

‘I think something else guided that creature,’ Elladan replied. ‘We know not why Erestor is within the tower. But Celeborn said that a soul had been devoured… Perhaps the Woodelf was right. Perhaps Rhawion is trapped within and Erestor has come to free him. Perhaps it is Rhawion who is danger.’

It was strange that the mere mention of Legolas Thranduillion had such an effect on Elrohir; he turned to Elladan irritably. ‘If he believed that fool, then he is a bigger fool. He has put himself in danger on the say-so of that….’ He closed his mouth tightly without speaking the insult. His eyes snapped back to the forest. ‘Come, we will find them and end this unnecessary risk to our friends.’

He strode off into the woods, and it seemed the trees made way from him then as if they felt his burning fire.

Above them, Phellanthir loomed like a fang in the dull wintry light. The dead leaves rattled on branches of the trees that clustered up against the old ruined wall that look more like a quarry of cliff now than carefully, smoothly engineered stone, dressed marbles and polished granite. The city was merely a rocky outcrop, like Weathertop or Amon Hen. Undeterred Elladan forced his way through the overgrowth and onto the old road. He picked his way carefully along the trail, and it wound up the side of the hill towards the old citadel. Below them the forest spread, a canopy of dull brown and bleak twigs that scratched against each other.

His hand clasped the hilt of the dagger instinctively, feeling its warmth rush up his arm, into his chest.

It had been a gift from his father when in truth Elladan was too young to wear it. Not a begetting gift, just a gift. For if Elrohir was the beloved son of their mother, Elladan was his father’s, though neither would have admitted it or shown it. 

It was given to me by one like my father when I was your age, Elrond had said, his eyes filled with such an expression of longing and nostalgia that Elladan did not speak in hope that he would say more, for Elrond never spoke of those days, never spoke their names. No one did but Erestor, and he wore his old loyalties like a badge, like a banner, defiant and proud. Celebrian had been outraged and neither Elladan not Elrohir knew if she was annoyed that Elrond had given their child a knife or if it was the association she disliked. 

Elrohir was as thrilled, never jealous of his brother but delighted that he had something so exciting. It was hefted differently, to favour a left hand, to use easily as if the other hand was busy elsewhere… or deadened, or lost. And the twins had whispered together in the dark, enamoured of the tales of Fëanor, and wove a tale of their own: that Maedhros had wrought it to be with him always; that he could, if he chose, ease the Oath, his own passing…except of course he could not. Because he had sworn, Elladan had insisted, with a certainty borne of Erestor’s tales, that he would recover the Jewels that were his own father’s soul.

Elladan had hardly dared wear the dagger let alone use it, for even in Elrond’s valley the names were confused with treachery and blood and murder. Until one afternoon in the sleepy Autumn. Elrohir had been gathered up by their mother and curled against her while she wound wools around his hands for weaving. He remembered the guilty look Elrohir cast him as Celebrián pulled him close, like a cat, and that Elrohir had called Elladan over too. But their mother had said that Elladan had to go to the study to finish what he had left the day before. It was not unkindly meant but cold nevertheless. She had not watched him with the same devotion that she watched Elrohir and it caused Elrohir as much pain, perhaps more, for their mother’s seeming indifference to one of them. 

Elladan fetched the gift from his father first and then perched himself resentfully on the edge of a hard chair at the too high desk with books and ink and pens before him. Left to his own devices and of an age when hunting and war and battles and heroism were far more in his mind than copying tengwar script, he drew the thin sharp blade from its sheath surreptitiously, liking the slide of steel, the satisfying shwoosh of fine sharp metal. He twirled the dagger between his fingers, watching the firelight flash and slide upon the blade, finding it soothing. He was examining it, holding it reverently, delicately, when Erestor burst in, cold and fresh from the hunt.

‘So young man, you have been banished here to finish what you could have finished yesterday,’ he declared and leaned over the chair to look at the paper Elladan hurriedly pulled towards him. ‘Your tutor will not be happy with you when she hears!’

There was the familiar scent of sandalwood and spices and ink that was so Erestor and that Elladan loved, for Erestor was fascinating, mercurial, kindness itself, but demanding too. His long black hair shone almost blue, shifted and slipped over his shoulder and brushed the oak desk and the rough woven parchment, and Elladan gazed up. Erestor had always been there, always been their refuge. But now Elladan recalled the strange expression on Erestor’s face as he caught sight of the dagger that Elladan had tried to hide. 

‘I did not think Elrond had kept this,’ Erestor had murmured half to himself. 

Then he had reached over Elladan’s shoulder and flipped the dagger out of his fingers, deftly caught it by the blade, spun and hurled it into a beam where the dagger wedged, whirring from the impact. ‘Use it and be damned,’ Erestor had said with a casual laugh and Elladan had stared for a moment and then turned with wide-eyed wonder at his father’s oldest friend. 

Erestor had turned to him and said gently, ‘He to whom it belonged would be ashamed to see you treat it like some delicate and precious artifact.’ And because Erestor was gallant and witty and flaunted his past like a flag, Elladan had begun to twirl the dagger showily until it became a habit. He loved to see the light catch in the symbols and runes etched so finely and in intricate design, turning them to a liquid molten river of words, almost speaking, lingering on the Fëanorian star, and stroking the rúmilic runes. He found he liked the slight edge of notoriety it brought that was more like his brother than he, but it brought too, his mother’s disapproval. 

Suddenly Elrohir grasped his arm, staring ahead. He pulled Elladan to the ground beside him, and he could feel Elrohir’s heart pounding loudly in his chest, blood pumping.

‘Look. There. Between the trees below,’ Elrohir hissed.

Elladan edged himself forwards until he could peer over the ledge and into the woods below. Something big was moving around down there. Really big. Not big enough for a dragon but it must be the creature that had passed over them. There was a gleam of a grey hide like wet stone. A blunt ugly head rose up on a long sinuous neck and seemed to scent the air. They could not see any eyes but a long tongue flickered out from a lipless mouth. 

‘What is that?’ Elladan asked in horror. As he spoke, a spiked tail thrashed amongst the trees and he heard Elrohir gasp. Elladan felt a little sick; it was much, much bigger than he had thought. And then its head lifted higher and it easily looked up from amongst the treetops. ‘It must be the size of a cold drake. Do you think that’s what it is?’

They had never seen one. Only a firedrake. And that only once. They had seen Smaug far off, distant fire, that strange winter in Mirkwood where all had been blurred by the miasma of Dol Guldur*. He frowned. ‘What is it doing here?’

‘Do we attack it or leave it?’ Elrohir spoke Elladan’s own thoughts. ‘Why is it here? Surely this is not the way an elven fëa has gone from the world?’

They both felt the brush of its ravenous appetite then, a reptile. Cold-blooded and savage. But the cold made it sleepy and it was at rest. Its ugly, blunt head quested the air lazily, and then sank back down low. Great reptilian pinions were folded back and its grey skin gleamed wetly for it had begun to rain lightly and everything was covered with fine mist.

‘There is no question that it is a creature of shadow,’ Elrohir shuddered. He rubbed a finger over his eye. ‘It is no threat to our horses or to us right now…

‘That is not to say that will not change. And perhaps this is the threat to Erestor.’

‘That is true.’

They both watched the ugly beast for a moment. ‘

‘We should kill it.’ 

A foul stench wafted on the breeze and Elladan almost gagged. ‘Yes, we should. It stinks of death.’ He leapt lightly from the track onto a fallen boulder far below them and scrambled over the ruins and clutter, rubble. He heard his brother follow and together they made their way from the ruined city walls into the forest below.

Elladan paused and looked again. The beast was hidden from view but Elrohir was right: it stank like carrion. He could hear it move too, its huge body crashed through the woods every time it moved; it was hardly well hidden.

He glanced at Elrohir who was drawing Aícanaro from his black sheath and felt for the tingle he always sensed when that dark blade was drawn; but this time, he felt no thrill of lust from his brother’s sword. Aícanaro’s lust was silent, slumbered, untouched by the prospect of the beast’s blood. 

It is not enough for you, my Darkness, he heard Elrohir’s thought and shuddered, but he knew too that the beast’s blood was too sluggish for Aícanaro, its intelligence blunt and reptilian.

Silently they tracked the creature’s blundering trail, broken trees and crushed bushes. It had caught something, for suddenly a horrible gurgling scream rent the silent forest and something was slaughtered. 

It was not hard to signal to each other to approach from either side and suddenly its blunt head was up. 

With sick horror, Elladan saw that it had no eyes just a maw of teeth. A string of rich red gore was strung from its jagged fangs and gobbets of meat flecked its grey silvery hide that gleamed like stone in the rain.

Striking at Elrohir, it opened it jaws wide like a serpent’s, and like lightning it snaked its head and lunged again.

Elrohir leapt to one side and then rolled and came up on his feet, dark Aícanaro clenched in his fists. Elladan slashed at its flank with his frost-bright Alcarinwë and black blood spurted from the wound. The creature swung its head round towards him, and he dived between the trees just as the jaws snapped shut. But it was hampered by the trees and Elrohir approached, his blade dripping with blood and a smudge on his high cheekbone. He shouted so the thing swung its head away from Elladan and towards Elrohir. Elladan could not see what happened next but the creature reared back, shrieking and gurgling. Dark blood spattered over Elrohir’s face and Elladan shied away in horror though his brother did not; he never did. Frost-bright, his own sword ripped through the tough hide and joined the dark magic of Aícanaro, plunging into the flesh of the beast, hacking its sinuous, repulsive reptilian neck until at last the creature writhed like a decapitated serpent, its great wings flailed and flapped until it keeled over, legs still twitching.

 

Elladan breathed hard and wiped his sword on the grass that was churned up and bloody. Then he looked towards the carcass of the animal that had been butchered by the dreadful beast. Though its hide had been black it was now unidentifiable, for it had been gnawed and torn apart completely. The long legs of the slaughtered animal could have belonged to horse or deer or mumâk for all they could tell. 

For a dreadful moment, Elladan thought it his own sweet Baraghur and he almost cried out, but it could not have been. No. It is not. They are tearing up the grass on the plains and have found Asfaloth. He blinked. Whilst he could indeed feel what Elrohir felt at times, and knew his thoughts, it was rarely as clear as this. He found his own brother’s eyes staring back at him. 

‘Not them,’ Elrohir said and Elladan felt his brothers’ warmth caress him, soothe him, and he breathed. ‘A deer.’ He was looking upwards, above Elladan’s head. ‘The creature must have ripped it apart in a frenzy.’ 

Elladan glanced upwards and at first he thought it was the branches of the tree itself and that something dark and heavy had been caught in them. A cold wind fingered its way through the forest and he saw that is was antlers caught in the tree and the stag’s head that hung from it. He grimaced.

‘A frenzy indeed.’ He looked down at the slain creature and pushed at the huge talons with his foot. ‘Eru knows what havoc it might have wreaked had it been left to hunt these lands. Many folk will sleep more safely though they know it not.’

But Elrohir did not speak. He was leaning over the creature’s head where his sword had almost hacked it off though it still clung by veins and tendons to the still twitching neck. He reached down, and for a moment Elladan thought he was going to dip his hand in its cold blood.

‘Do not touch it!’ he exclaimed and Elrohir glanced at him askance. Then he ignored Elrohir and reached down, but as he straightened, he pulled something long and thin between his fingers.

‘What is this?’ he said, holding it up so Elrohir too could see it.

‘Reins? Is that what this is?’ He stared at Elrohir. ‘This is a bridle of sorts. Look at this.’ He pointed with the tip of his sword at the ugly, gaping mouth with its thick crust of teeth. Dried dark wetness was at the corner of its mouth and a sharp metal spike against its cheek. A cruel master indeed but a master nonetheless.

‘This can only be the Nazgûl,’ Elrohir said darkly. ‘Did Glorfindel not vanquish it? It must still be here,’ Elrohir hissed, drawing Aícanaro once again and pulling Elladan towards him and behind him then. He backed away from the carcass. ‘I should have guessed.’

‘Or it has been joined by its Brethren.’ Elladan pulled away and stepped out into the clearing made by the beast. ‘There is no sense of them here and it stinks enough on its own.’

‘Come away,’ said Elrohir with a sudden sense of foreboding. ‘The Nazgûl is not here but it will not be far.’

‘At least this is one less threat,’ he added as they climbed back upon the path. They did not turn again and so they did not see the shadow that circled far on the edges of the forest, nor did they hear the whump of leathery wings upon the wind. Below them the fell beast was still, but soon its carrion kin would arrive to feed. 

They searched and saw that a holly tree had fallen across the main entrance to the Tower. A fine thread of black linen caught on Elladan’s finger and they knew they were following Erestor. Within, the dust rose like flocks of ghostly birds and a shadow merged into the dark, yet they did not see it.

0o0o

Notes:  
* Rilmapentë* - Glorfindel’s sword that he used to fight the Balrog. Forged by Curufin himself for Glorfindel after his own sword was lost in the Battle of Unnumbered Tears.  
* Eruvatúrë- the new sword, relatively, given him by Gil-Galad when he arrived from Aman.  
* Celebrimbor had openly criticized his father, Curufin, for what happened in Nargothrond: Beren came to Finrod for help in getting a Silmaril which he needed in order to wed Luthien. Celegorm and Curufin, who were living in Nargothrond at the time, persuaded most of Nargothrond to stay behind; only ten warriors, went with them and they were all promptly captured by Sauron. Finrod died protecting Beren.  
* The time that Elorhir and Elladan saw Smaug is based on where I think Spiced Wine’s amazing and gorgeous spin-off is going, based on Sons of Thunder. I love the fact that we dip into each other’s ‘verse.

Translations:  
Ilweranta- rainbow, lit. But Celebrimbor uses the word like we would ‘spectrum’. It is a more scientific term in Quenya than our usage of the word rainbow.  
helyanwë - sky-bridge, noun. This is the common word for rainbow in Quenya.


	9. Chapter 9

Acknowledgements: The title is taken from Spiced Wine’s Dark Star, which is a wonderful fic of Elrohir and her fab Dark Prince. In fact it was a moment from her fic that was inspiration for some of this.

Beta: Anarithilen. Bless you.

Summary: (I know it’s been a while since I updated) During the story More Dangerous, Less Wise, Glorfindel arrives at Phellanthir during the search to make sure the way is clear for the Fellowship. He has Legolas, Gimli and two Imladrian warriors with him. Rhawion is killed by the Nazgûl and Legolas retrieved by Glorfindel but wounded. In his delirium he is convinced that Rhawion’s fëa is trapped in Phellanthir. Erestor and Glorfindel investigate and find that Rhawion’s soul is indeed trapped and the Nazgul has been feeding off it. Rhawion casts himself at the Nazgul to defend Glorfindel and is destroyed. Glorfindel and Erestor are plagued with feelings of dread on Glorfindel’s part, (for he senses an old adversary) and elation on Erestor’s, who is convinced that his lord Maedhros is somehow present. They discover an old Mirror in the hall of Phellanthir, Celebrimbor’s old city and it is clear that the Nazgûl was here to guard the Mirror. Glorfindel and Erestor have gone back to the glass to discover what its secret is. In the meantime, the Sons of Thunder have arrived and found and killed one of the winged beasts of the Nazgûl.

 

This chapter starts with Maedhros.

 

Chapter 8: Watchfires.

Like iron filings bending towards a magnet, shattered light and cold blue steel sparks of pure energy drew together towards the warmth that trembled still in the Glass; drawn together by more than gravity for here there was none. No physical presence, but a form of sorts… an awareness of itself….

And then…memory opened like a blossoming….

Burning molten rock. Lava seethed and churned. 

It seemed fitting.

He fell, blazing like a comet and the Silmarils splintered into rainbows and burst in his eyes…Is it for this that I have sacrificed everything?

But as he burned, even after all this, he simply let the blazing lights fall so he could hold onto the silver and blue worn scrap of cloth, stained brown…crushed it to his heart. His last act was silent. A kiss pressed against the scrap of cloth worn thin with handling. The heat evaporated tears.

Slowly, space and time turned and rolled hugely, spiralled past in the soft darkness of oblivion. Those moments seemed an eternity. In that time there was only the Song; glorious, indescribable. He soared on wings of sound, of immense waves of huge chords rising and falling, symphonies of sound spiralling up and up, around him, lifting in a crescendo of sound and light and unutterable loveliness.

A distant voice, a still, small voice at first but that grew became tumultuous like the storm, like the Sea, like the vastness of space. In it were suns bursting over the horizons of far planets, the huge galaxies wheeling across the aeons. 

 

Child of Fire…

The voice of Eru. 

Stunned. Amazed, he was silent for Ages.

Child of Fire.

Slowly, wondering why he was not in anguish from the burning, he said quietly to the emptiness and air, to Eru, ‘I am quite mad.’ 

I have you, Child of Fire.

He felt himself cradled as one would hold a windflower, in a breath that was benevolence itself… He did not want to leave. He did not want to be disembodied, senseless, formless. Whatever it was he would be in the Eternal Darkness to which his unfulfilled Oath had cast him. ‘Will I still be part of the Song though I go into the Dark?’

Child of Fire, blessed and cursed.You will be a watchfire in the Dark where you will fight your sworn enemy. He is your Bane and you are his. This, in truth, is what you were born for.

His heart swelled with Eru’s great love for him, and sadness. It was needed. He was needed. And he would rather cut off every last remaining limb than heed Námo’s ululation at his death. 

Then let me dwell in the Everlasting Dark as I have sworn. Alone if I must and for Aeons. He will always be watched because I am here. This is Himring.

Yes…beloved Child….

The Voice was quiet now; still and utter calm softly fell around the burning spirit. He felt a flex of Power and knew that though he had no weapons, he was not powerless as he had been in Angband, against Morgoth, against the Valar…He went quietly into the Everlasting Dark and wondered if he alone guarded the World from the Outside.

 

Ages passed. 

Here in the howling Dark, there was only malevolence and evil and his cold steel-blue spirit. Sometimes there were other spirits, warped and corrupted by Moringhotto Bauglir, and they cried, keened. There had been a Dragon once, a spirit of Fire swirling up and up and up as if it tried to reach beyond the bounds of Arda. As if it sought the Sacred Fire that it sprang from before its heart was corrupted. Like a moth it tried to escape the bonds of the Dark. Its cry haunted him still. 

There were the Valarauki too. Shadow and Flame. There was nothing left but the fëa that were dark with malice and hunted him as he hunted them. In his hunting he found that there were places where the veils between the world and the Dark were thin, where the threads of Time and Space could be pushed aside. He knew that Moringhotto Bauglir wanted these places, would push, push against the veils, seeking ever a way into the world. One of these places he found himself drawn to, more and more…memories caught at him like cobwebs, dreams; 

It was not Himring but somewhere else; the light silks at tall windows would never do for cold Himring, watchful Himring. A tall harp, beautiful, etched and engraved with runes and patterns stood in the centre of the elegant room. He could not remember where it was now. The places, the names, and all but one of the beloved faces faded in his grasp… Someone tugged at his empty sleeve and he turned and looked down kindly at the small child who reached up to hold his hand that was not there. Bright grey curious eyes that did not look away, a child’s eager curiosity. Tyelpo. Strange, curious child. He had been as fascinated by his uncle’s’ silly experiments with wheat and steel as he was by the dark materials of the Palantri. All was knowledge, curvé..

This place drew him endlessly. And then a grey patch of twilight brightened in the Dark, it was like light flooded this place. 

He had rushed to it crying No! No! for the light was what the corrupted spirits craved; it would pull them to it, like moths. This grey patch of twilight in the Endless Dark. Like a pool in the winter forest.

He had been even more alert in those days of the discovery of light, even more watchful, anxious that Moringhotto would know the Glass had opened a channel to the World; threads of light seeped across the Dark, trembled the strange delicate Space like a fly on a web. He guarded it, spun about it a glamour that concealed it. And he watched the grey light curiously, hungrily.

It was strange how the glass was lit from within. He could see now that there were ethereal lights on the other side of the glass, that spun into the darkness like splinters of rainbow fading impossibly into the night; he could see dim reflections, figures, shapes, as if he looked into water.

Even now, it was unbelievable. Through the glass darkly, he could see beyond to a real city, not a fortress. Its gleaming hall was full of light, jewelled lamps surpassing even those his father had made for Tirion- far, distant Tirion where he would never walk again. 

The indistinct face that had peered into through the twilight was Tyelpo. It was Tyelpo who had drawn him here, with his longing and love for anyone of his blood, it had been a moment akin to Fingon’s rescue - another face in the emptiness and the relentless Dark. Relief from being hunted and hunting in turn. 

It was hard to communicate for Maedhros had no real voice; he was but fëa, pure spirit, drifting in the Dark spaces between worlds. He had no voice… but Tyelpo was clever; he had made a device that projected ósanwe. They knew each other’s thought. It created a dream-like state where Maedhros saw Tyelpo’s life, his dreams and thoughts as if they were his own. He even saw himself from Tyelpo’s perspective and was a little shocked at how he was remembered, how adored, how venerated by the Faithful.

Tyelpo had wept when he saw Maedhros until he understood. 

I am the Bane of Morgoth. The watchfire.

He knew Tyelpo’s thought, knew there was another with whom Tyelpo worked although he did not come to the Glass, Tyelpo kept it secret as he kept the Rings secret. But the last time Tyelpo had come, he had been full of fear and betrayal… Sauron. Maedhros recognised him as soon as Tyelpo showed him in his mind and bitterly rued that Tyelpo had kept from him the nature of his accomplice for Maedhros would have recognised Sauron anywhere… Anywhere. The subtle silk voice, the smooth cruelty…

Do you see how he flinches? Heat that… Put that there. Insert this here…

Tyelpo had brought the Rings to their full power to open the device, to use the Glass. It was their purpose, the keys to the Dark. Tyelpo, he saw now, had dreamed of opening the door between, to release him from this prison. But it could open the door to more than he.

Why did you not speak of this Annatar until now? he cried in despair, for Tyelpo was doomed; they both knew then. And Sauron wanted to open the Dark.

He and Tyelpo could hide nothing from each other; so if Tyelpo had not known before, he saw now what Sauron had done to Maedhros in Angband, during those long, long years when Maedhros thought would never cease. And Maedhros saw what Annatar was to Tyelpo; for Tyelpo had lost a dear friend, a Dwarf and he mourned still.

Then he saw the One Ring created by Sauron to rule all others. It sought dominion over the Three. Over everything.

They both knew then. 

You must destroy the Glass, Maedhros urged him. Sauron knows of it, and he will use it.

He does not know how to use it, Tyelpo insistent, as protective as Feanor of his creation. 

Do not be a fool, Tyelpo! 

But Tyelpo looked over his shoulder then in fear and there was a great boom that echoed even through the Glass, rang into the Dark. Tyelpo gave one last, terrified and defiant look at Maedhros. Maedhros reached out in fear for his last kin, tried to touch him, to warn, to reassure him…but Tyelpo hurried away and never came again.

The Glass closed to him.

Until now. Warmth had pressed itself against his fingers on the glass and they had sunk into it, like snow…

On the other side there was darkness too. A cold deathly shadow. He knew the touch of the Enemy was upon it and he stood guard, watchful. It was not his task to pursue the enemies of Light on Middle Earth; it was his to pursue Bauglir to the very bitter end of all things. And Bauglir was yet in the Dark.

But from behind, there was a roar building in the hungry belly of the Dark. It grew closer; it was hurtling through the darkness towards Maedhros. He turned his head slightly for he knew its name.

Ruinátoró

Shadow and flame.

 

0o0o

 

Although thin winter daylight filtered into Celebrimbor’s once glorious city, the sweep of marble stairs, smooth as bone even now, faded into darkness above and a cold chill lay on the air. So cold Erestor caught his breath and his throat stuck like he was parched.

Glorfindel too faltered and half turned to Erestor, a slight puzzlement on his face as if he tried to remember something that just beyond his grasp. They had left their footsteps in the thick dust from last time, but there were other marks now, a strange sweep across the fine dust as if something else had passed.

‘Guard your thoughts,’ Erestor whispered and his hand went to his sword. He stared ahead into the gloom. Glorfindel nodded once and then turned and stepped silently up the wide, marble stairs. 

It seemed to Erestor that it grew colder the higher they climbed and the darkness ahead even more like a mouth. All the hairs on his neck and back were stiff and he felt every nerve in his body alert, urging him to flee.

‘They are here,’ Glorfindel murmured over his shoulder. Erestor nodded only once as if he might disturb the air itself. They eased forwards. ‘Let us surprise them.’ There was a flash of white teeth.

‘Be ware, Glorfindel. This is not just Pitya-angu,’ Erestor warned. There was a sense of cunning and malice. He paused as if scenting the air, like a hound. Cold malice. Sorcery like a dark smear on the oily air.

Erestor let his hand touch the hilt of another blade at his hip; the morgul blade he had taken from Imladris, that Gandalf had brought from Dol Guldur. It seemed to vibrate slightly as if it sensed the Nazgûl, wanted to return to them. Do not believe for a moment I will not use you against your masters, he muttered to it. 

A black burn spat itself against his mind and he almost stopped in surprise.

So you are not completely witless, he hissed back but he thought he would not trust the blade for it would turn against him should he use it. Wicked thing that you are, I would turn you against your lords and it would give me great pleasure.

A taste of burned flesh was in his mouth like revenge and he wanted to spit but he did not. He would not give the morgul blade an ounce of satisfaction. Instead he imagined the Nazgûl wailing in fear and pain and writhing about before vanishing in an explosion of poisonous green. He smiled thinly at the writhing hatred he felt from the blade against his thigh and he checked the sheath in which he kept it for he knew it would seek to pierce his skin if it could. Like a snake it was.

Glorfindel had stopped dead and was listening, his eyes half closed and his head tilted to one side. He held up his hand to Erestor and he too halted just at the top of the stairs before the arching mouth to the Óromardë.

Silence.

And then there was a shift in the air, cold drifted in as if someone had opened a door. Erestor lifted his head, met Glorfindel’s eyes for a moment and they both turned, swords smoothly drawn from their sheaths.

There was the softest shuffle of boots on the cold stones in the hall below.

‘Hush,’ Glorfindel hissed, his eyes pinned Erestor, held him where he stood. They stared at each other for a moment.

‘Have they brought orcs with them?’ Erestor whispered. ‘Two Nazgûl and a bunch of Orcs.’ He showed his white teeth. ‘Good.’

Glorfindel drew his sword silently from its sheath. ‘Stay here,’ he said to Erestor who opened his mouth to protest but Glorfindel glared at him, his piercing blue eyes almost burned. ‘Do not go inside. There may be Nazgûl already there.’ 

He was so emphatic that for once Erestor did not demur when Glorfindel turned and faded into the shadows that clung to the grey entrance of the Hall. He heard the whisper of Glorfindel’s footsteps, almost but not quite silent, as he crept down the wide stone staircase and Erestor turned and, in spite of- or perhaps because of Glorfindel’s instruction to stay put, he paused briefly and only looked into the darkness of Celebrimbor’s Óromardë.

Now that he knew, his eyes alit upon the mirror at the farthest end of the long hall. He saw now that it rested on a plinth which raised it slightly from the floor. Even from here he could see how it reflected the thin daylight, like a pool reflects light dimly in a dark forest.

A drift of cold stars, blue steel distant in the cold dark…

He was blazing like a comet. Burning. So his skin was melting from his bones. He held out his hand where the light was; shining white light that splintered into rainbows and burst in his eyes…It was for this that he had sacrificed everything…Father… But as he burned, even after all this, he simply let the blazing lights fall so he could hold onto the silver and blue worn scrap of cloth, stained brown…crushed it to his heart. His last act was silent. A kiss…The heat evaporated tears.

Erestor found himself gasping, clutching his chest for the viscerating pain that ripped open his heart and he bent over, a cry bursting from his mouth. His feet seemed to take him there without thought or effort on his part, seemed to fly indeed and he found himself on his knees before the Mirror.

But the glass only reflected the thin grey daylight that seeped between the cracks in the roof of the dim, silent hall. Dust drifted on the air that came up from the lower levels where Glorfindel had disappeared, lightly coated the surface of the mirror. He peered into it to see only his own face floating eerily in that ancient glass, thousands of years old. His amber eyes seemed hooded, deep, haunted and his mouth like a thin slash. 

He grimaced at himself. What had he thought to see? Maedhros? He bowed his head and looked down at his hands, still clutching his chest for the pain was physical, a wound. He swallowed. Surely he had heard, felt Maedhros? Surely that burning, that light had been Maedhros? For the silver-blue scrap of cloth had been the one that he himself had torn from Fingon’s bloody and crushed body.

He breathed in slowly, his hand resting now on the edge of the Mirror as he knelt, and he wondered if he had been completely deceived, that what he felt was just his desire, his wish that he could somehow deliver his beloved lord. It was this place, it played on one’s dreams, fears in Glorfindel’s case. But all was illusion.

There were scratches on the surface of the glass and he remembered Celebrimbor saying that it was important the glass was coated very thinly in copper but you would not know for it was very dark. But when he leaned to look at it more closely he realised he had seen something like it before; so smooth, so polished it was almost glass but it was not. Was it the same deep black metal as the Palantri? He brushed his fingertips lightly against the surface and again, had the sensation of sinking into cold darkness…He pulled his hand back quickly but he thought he left an imprint of his fingers somehow in the mirror itself, like it was not glass at all but some kind of clay. Not quite like the Palantri then. But similar.

He peered at the mirror closely. He saw himself again, sharp-angled face pale and eyes wide. Behind him…before him? he could not tell, cold steel sparks glowed like distant stars, drifting in the dark. He could not help but brush his fingers again over the cold darkness and this time the silver-blue sparks began to coalesce, to speed together as if his touch had ignited them somehow. They moved and glittered, like a shoal of silver-blue fish.  
But the darkness was tinged with orange, like a fire raged somewhere still distant. 

Wondering and bewildered he let his hand sink into the cold grasp of the Mirror and it yielded but did not break, like the skin of water when lightly touched. He reached out to the blue steel sparks that swirled now and rushed together like he had once seen iron filings to a magnet; it had been Maedhros who showed him when he was a boy. Blue lights shot across the glass like one of Mithrandir’s fireworks exploding and flaring into something huge and glorious. A blaze of light lit the dim hall and in the Glass itself, there was an outline of steel-blue power. 

Erestor found tears on his face once more. ‘My lord! Maedhros,’ he cried. The mirror sucked him coldly and he felt it seep into his bones but he did not break his touch. Instead he pressed harder against the resistance of the glass and let his fingers sink deeper, push harder. The blue lights in the Glass shifted quickly and he was bathed in silver-blue light.

No! No! It will break. You do not know what is in here.

And the cry was desperate; he was sure it was from the mirror and not in his fevered imaginings, but as he slowly pulled his hand back, the cold glass almost sucked at his hand as he withdrew, horribly. He shuddered and then from the deep darkness of the Mirror there came a distant roar. 

Erestor shuffled back alarmed. 

He stared into the mirror to see that the steel-blue light seemed to turn away, towards the roar, towards the orange tinged darkness that seemed to ignite in a distant storm. A firestorm? he wondered and leaned in close as if he could see, or hear. The hall was dimmed once more.

I am quite mad, he thought but the voice in his head seemed detached as if if it were not his.

But he could not dwell on that for there was the whisper of cold breath of his cheek…the smell of empty tombs and with sinking dread, he turned away from the Glass towards the cold shadows.

The dark stretched away the length of the great, empty hall. Shadows lingered, gathered on the edge of the dark and he was suddenly cold. He let his senses slide out into the darkness, reached carefully into the corners of the silent hall and explored the cold emptiness. 

Nothing. Silent. Empty.

Behind him something brushed against the dust that coated the marble floor, and a coldness stroked up his spine. In the corners and shadows, something seemed to skitter over the darkness. He felt all the hairs on his skin stand erect and he spun round, eyes wide, peering into the dark corners where the shadows were thickest, most impenetrable. 

Something clanged, cold and hard. Like iron. A broadsword, old and wicked. Cold as ice. He turned his head towards it and found an empty hood next to his cheek.

Far from your home, Nármöfinion…

It could not be called a laugh for the dry scrape of sound was more a rusted sword, but there was no question of the mockery.

Far from your home, sunk beneath the Sea and all souls lost but three…

There was a slide of steel against his ribs and he jerked back. Soundless, his mouth opened to shout a warning to Glorfindel, but a dry, empty smell that seemed to suck the air from his lungs, left him nerveless with fear; eyes wide open, he stared at the empty hood that leaned in towards him.

This was not the weak presence he had vanquished in the Tower. 

No. 

I am Angmar. 

I have come for you, Erestor Narmófinion. I remember you.

Suddenly there was a flash of blue-steel light in the glass like lightning, blinding it split the darkness and Erestor had a glimpse of the Witch-King of Angmar as he was; a skeletal ghoul, tattered black shroud that clung to bones. The lightning flashed again and Erestor saw that Angmar had raised his arm and stretched his hand so the palm faced outwards towards the huge doors to the Óromardë. The doors creaked suddenly and then slammed shut with a clang that sent a resounding echo shuddering through the emptiness and silence.

Angmar turned slowly towards Erestor and the Wraith’s thin black shroud seemed to bleed like ink into the air, like tattered ribbons, and it seemed to slip around Erestor, catch in his feet and hands, slide coldly through his hair, across his skin. And then off to his left, Erestor became aware of a shifting of darkness and shadows. He glanced quickly and peered into the gloom. There was a mailed foot on the edge of that darkness. It moved and the edge of a thin black shroud brushed against the dust that coated the floor

Not just Angmar then. 

No. It is I, Khamûl.

A fiery light reflected from the glass and tinged the darkness orange. Fire, he thought. Fire was the only thing that could drive away the Nazgul, but he had none and he could not see how the fire that blazed in the Glass could help him. Now he could see beyond the thin veils of the Ringwraiths, could see their dim forms, the skeletons they were, the grinning empty eyes that burned, the hunger that devoured them. A panicked fear shot through him, the image of the fluttering bright fëa as it fought and fluttered in the claws of the Nazgûl….No! Surely he could not end this way? Narmófinion, who stood with Fingon in that last great battle against balrogs and dragons, and yet survived. He would be slain here in this empty, abandoned place and he had never spoken; never told Elladan what was in his heart, had never said that the world existed only for Elladan and without him there was no meaning…but there was no time now.

I have come for you, Angmar’s hollow voice was in his head. The bounds have been broken by our brethren…But still, we hunger. In his hand swung a huge old mace, spiked and heavy. One blow and it would kill Erestor.

Suddenly Erestor understood; the unnamed Nazgûl that had consumed Rhawion had broken some law set by Sauron, and he saw how angry was the Witch-king, how furious that this lesser wraith had had that which he craved. Oh, craved indeed. It was a dreadful, gnawing hunger that they could not satisfy, had been forbidden by Sauron. Their lust and desire could not be assuaged. They were starving.

But now that line had been crossed and the lesser wraith had tasted what Angmar had not. And here was Erestor and the mace swung lightly in Angmar’s hand.

You are afraid.

It was an observation.

‘Of you?’ Erestor spat a jeer into the grey light, scared and defiant in spite of it because Maedhros was here, nearby, somewhere, he told himself again and emotion bubbled, swelled in his chest. He would not be defeated by these wraiths! 

Khamûl stepped forwards now, and the shadows and dark seemed to cling to him. The great broadsword Erestor remembered so well was drawn and there was a slick of red gleaming on the blade.

Blood.

Glorfindel.

So now you begin to see, to fear. 

Ah, no. Not that bright soul! Surely it could not end like this for Glorfindel and him? Surely Glorfindel should have gone out in a blaze like Gil-Galad, Fingon and Fingolfin! Not quietly dispatched by Sauron’s ghouls. Erestor felt his heart squeeze and slowly grief overwhelmed him. Glorfindel gone? It could not be!

Suddenly Angmar’s empty hood lurched threateningly towards Erestor and an ear-splitting scream tore apart the silence and emptiness. The mace swooped through the air and a foul wind ripped at his hair, battered him and tore around the empty hall. In the moment the Witch-King struck. Erestor leapt sideways just as a huge spiked mace crashed against the marble with a huge crack. It split beneath them like ice and the Witch-King drew back and raised his mace once more, swung it once and smashed it again at Erestor’s feet as he leapt again to one side. Splinters of marble flew put as it shattered. No man, even an Elf, could have raised that heavy weapon.

‘Clumsy and old you are, Angmar, you rust-bucket,’ he shouted, jeering, but his heart was pounding; he was still alone in this place, and this was no weak, unnamed Wraith; this was Angmar, the Witch-King. Lightning flashed again and Erestor glimpsed again the skull, the grinning teeth and jaw of Angmar. He whirled his sword over his head three times. Defiant. Terrified. Miserable with grief for Glorfindel’s loss, for his own death.

Blue-silver lightning flashed and suddenly, like a reproach, there was Maedhros himself arrayed for battle and splendid in his fury as if Erestor’s fear and misery had conjured him. He stood in the Glass haloed in blue light for a split second and the Dark behind him was a red furnace. Erestor thought for a moment he saw a shape in that fire and thought of Glorfindel’s fear that the Balrog was in there. And both were gone, plunged again into darkness.

Erestor stood staring for a split moment and the Glass lit again from within as if some far off storm lashed itself in the dark. And then plunged again into darkness.

You are forsworn. He is here to reproach you.

Erestor laughed then for Maedhros had never reproached anyone for anything, even Fingon’s reckless betrayal, even his father’s terrible Oath. And he would never reproach Erestor whom he had raised as one of his many fosterlings. But more than that, it meant that the Nazgûl had seen Maedhros. It was not just Erestor. Maedhros is here! His heart thumped in his chest.

‘How can you know his love? How can you comprehend anything about he who was greater than any man who ever lived?’ His chest surged with pride and love and loss. ‘You are merely scary ghosts in the dark!’ he shouted loudly because that gave him courage. ‘Your greatest weapon is fear! And that cannot hurt me.’ 

Then he whirled fast and slashed at the black shrouds, and there were sparks as his sword struck old iron, armour. Khamûl retaliated hard and fast, furious blows rained down and Erestor was hard pressed when he heard the whirr in the air as Angmar swung his great mace slowly around his head and there was a huge whump on the air as the mace crashed towards him. He just managed to slip out of its path but it put him into Khamûl’s sword’s way and he felt the blade slide down his tunic and the seams burst open.

Erestor had a horrible memory then of a fluttering light like a trapped bird, Rhawion. In his heart there was a thin, cold stream in his blood that was indeed fear. Would the same happen to him? Had they devoured Glorfindel?

There was a long hiss from the Nazgûl that could have been a sigh but he had no time to dwell on it for Angmar swung that huge mace again and this time it struck sparks from the floor, splintered it like glass. Erestor glanced behind him to the Mirror, trying not to think what damage that mace could do. 

The temptation of that…brightness. The light. 

They were so hungry! Starving. He felt the emptiness gnawing at their bellies, chewing on their bones and the gaping wide mouth that devoured, devoured and devoured them leaving nothing. Less than nothing- a yawning hole into which all light, all energy fell forever, and was never, never satisfied….Agony.

We must feed, we must have souls to devour and the soul of a nimir would feed us indeed, for an age. This old soul, burned to purity, will warm us. Will sustain us for long years to come…But forbidden by my Lord, we hunger. And starve. 

Erestor fell back. It was a brittle leash of Power that kept the Nazgûl in check, stopped them from hunting the souls of elves and rending them soul from body… but it was strained indeed. It struck him for a moment that Pitya-Angu would be punished indeed.

Khamûl struck. Blades rang out again, hard and fast and the wraith swung round and struck Erestor again. Red fire and blue lightning blazed in the Glass like some epic reflection of his own battle and somewhere Erestor was aware again of a distant roaring like a fire had caught somewhere far off; there was something building, a charge lighting the air. A rumbling but still distant crack of thunder like a whip of flame. In that moment of inattention, he felt a tear along his back and moved faster, threw up his own sword in front of him and whirled fast, meeting Khamûl. Khamûl stepped back quickly, evading Erestor’s blow and then suddenly, he reached into the folds of his black robe and drew forth a strange knife; its blade was black like Elrohir’s blade, Aícanaro, and its hilt was twisted into a serpent shape and there were small jewels for its eyes and they glittered.

A morgul blade.

And here you are. Alone. Perhaps you will yet comprehend.

There was a hammering on the doors to the Óromardë, boom after boom like the sea striking the cliffs and Erestor almost sank ; this could only be the third, maybe fourth of their brethren? This was the end of all things for him. The doors buckled for a moment but held and he was glad that Angmar’s power had sealed them so tightly but the hammering did not cease and the echo of the boom boom boom resounded terrifyingly around the marble hall.

Then Khamûl’s old sword slashed down and Erestor raised his own bright Fëanorian blade to block the blow but in that moment, Angmar swung the mace once again and Erestor could not defend himself against both; Khamûl’s sword pressed down on him and he felt his foot slip, he crashed to his knees and flung out a hand to stop himself falling. Angmar struck. The mace pounded down but it was fortune alone that it was the heavy chain that struck him and not the mace, for his arm would have been smashed to splinters otherwise. As it was, his sword was knocked out of his hand. He scrambled after it but it clattered into the darkness, the cold black shadows and he suddenly felt afraid to go into that darkness…

Instinctively his hand flew to his knife belt and he felt the unfamiliarity of a knife that was not his own. It hissed in fury and rage as he drew the morgul blade from the sheath he had made for it when he decided he would keep it and not Saruman.

He looked up with a grim smile on his lips.

’You were careless on Amon Sûl,’ he said softly. ‘You should not leave things lying around if you want them back.’

Angmar was utterly silent but his fury made the air tremble. He advanced not a step closer though and Khamûl fell back.

Fool! You dare threaten me! 

Erestor, still on his knees, tilted his head and regarded them thoughtfully. Angmar seemed to draw himself up, and though his hood was horribly empty, Erestor felt the burn of his scrutiny…and something else: fear? 

‘Do you fear the morgul blade?’ he wondered aloud. ‘Does it rip you from this world and throw you into the Dark?’

Silence. The edges of the black robes lifted slightly in the bitter wind that whistled through the cracks in the roof and it was suddenly colder. He pushed himself to his feet and shoved away the fear that caught in his throat that he knew was their greatest weapon.

‘I am not afraid of you, mere ghosts in the shadows!’ he declared. 

But even as he spoke, a great boom echoed round the hall and at that moment the doors buckled and suddenly were thrown back and crashed against the walls. The ground shook and small stones and rocks smashed onto the marble floor. Three figures burst in through the cracked open doors.

I am finished, Erestor thought. But I will not go quietly.

A bright figure was running towards him at the moment his eyes cleared and he saw it was Glorfindel! Erestor almost collapsed with relief and then he saw the Sons of Elrond follow and his heart sang.

Angmar screeched with rage and swung his great mace so it crashed towards Glorfindel but Khamûl moved past Glorfindel towards the sons of Elrond. His thin black shroud moved and the tattered ends curled, writhed like serpents, like long fingers reaching horribly for Elladan. Lightning glittered in the tiny red jewelled eyes of the knife in Khamûl’s mailed gauntlet.

Elladan turned his lovely, fearless face towards Erestor for a moment and smiled. Erestor’s heart stopped and everything seemed to slow. He was aware of a crushing heat growing in the Hall. A sense of immense danger rang in his blood. He turned his head to see that the Glass bubbled red and fiery and the surface moved and undulated

‘Get out!’ he shouted to Elladan, ‘Glorfindel! Get them out of here!’ but it was overwhelmed by the deafening roar from the Glass.

Blue light swept over the surface and then red fire overwhelmed it. A huge bellow of rage thundered through the hall and it was from the Glass. Glorfindel was white-faced, his bright sword held before him. Erestor cried out in fear for the Nazgûl were close and there were shapes moving in the Glass, a furnace that raged and lit them all fiery red. The roar of the flames thundered through the hall and the surface of the mirror bulged like a bubble and stretched into a bowl of flame. Erestor stared in horror and saw within, a shape; one that he had dreamed of in those terrible memories of the Tears when the balrogs had ground Fingon into the mud.

Ruinátoró

Erestor saw upon the Cristhorn now, Glorfindel stood at bay, and ahead of him a huge towering figure of shadow and flame, horns of fire and its tail lashed against the rock, bringing down a scatter of rocks upon the Elves that fled before it. Glorfindel stood so bright and so courageous in the face of such a terrible foe. His bright sword was in his hand and he leapt towards the Balrog as Gondolin fell, its white towers crashing down, the bells clanging hopelessly and the hordes of trolls and orcs and balrogs pulled down the walls and the dragons soared overhead. But Glorfindel stood and fought….

This was Ruinátoró, the balrog which slew him and he slew in turn. And it was bursting out of the Glass and Glorfindel could only stand, his face white with fear.

‘Glorfindel!’ It was Elrohir now who ran forwards and grabbed Glorfindel’s arm, dragged at him but Glorfindel seemed rooted to the ground and his mouth was open, staring in horror at the huge fiery demon that shoved against the Glass so it bulged dangerously. ‘Glorfindel, run! It is shattering! Breaking!’

Splinters seemed to burn off the Glass and exploded into the air, the roaring bellow filled the hall and the heat was unbearable, a furnace. Erestor seized Glorfindel’s other arm and together with Elrohir they dragged him away from the Glass.

What he did not see was Khamûl’s raised arm and the glint of metal as the morgul blade flew through the air. He felt a body barrel into him, and he crashed to the ground, grit and stones ground into his cheek.

 

0o0o


	10. Chapter 10

Thank you especially to Spiced Wine, Cheekybeak and WinterWitch for the helpful discussions about Morgul blades, their origins and purpose!

 

Beta: Anarithilen.

 

Chapter 9: Ruinátoró

 

 

Elrohir slammed against the huge doors and glanced alongside at Glorfindel, back against the doors too and breathing hard. Through the heavy bronze he could feel the searing heat, almost too much to bear. A terrible boom echoed within and a shudder ran through the doors. He could not see what Erestor or Elladan were doing but he heard them pulling something from the rubble.

 

‘What in all the Hells is that?’ Elrohir muttered.

 

‘That is a Balrog,’ Glorfindel answered grimly. ‘It has come for me.’

 

Stunned, Elrohir turned his head towards Glorfindel. ‘No. It cannot be! It is …it is fire yes, but that cannot be a Balrog.’ He tried to think on the strange circle, like a bowl that bulged out into the hall and the flames that filled it but he could not comprehend what he had seen.

 

‘You do not understand.’ Glorfindel breathed deeply. His face was ashen, Elrohir realised, and he saw that the sword in Glorfindel’s hand trembled. Elrohir had never seen Glorfindel afraid. Ever. Suddenly, Elrohir too felt afraid and at the same time, there was a shiver across the blue calm of Elladan’s fëa. He glanced sideways and saw the outline of his brother limned in a fiery glow, moving, pulling something from the rubble with Erestor.

 

There was another loud boom from within, like thunder rolling over mountains, and he felt the doors shudder again. He braced himself against the bronze, feeling the heat intense and hot against his leather jerkin.

 

Glorfindel slammed himself against the doors, teeth clenched. He cast a look sideways at Elrohir. ‘I wrestled with it on the Cristhorn. We both fell, into the snow. Its whip lashed me with fire and its blade pierced me many times, killing me as I killed it….It has come for me.’

 

Elrohir felt horror creep over him. ‘Where has it come from?’ he whispered, as if the demon might be eluded if they could be concealed. ‘Can it get out?’

 

Erestor joined them now. A beam of wood rested lightly in his arms although it was thick and substantial. He wedged it against the doors firmly but none of them thought it could last. ‘There is …an artifact,’ Erestor said but his voice was excited, less afraid than elated but Erestor was strange and often inexplicable. ‘A glass,’ he continued and his amber eyes were bright. ‘Left over from Celebrimbor’s time. A Mirror like the one Galadriel has but much bigger.’ He glanced at Glorfindel and the door juddered under a thundering boom, the bronze was almost searing in its heat. ‘It is somehow a… I don’t know… a door? A window onto the Everlasting Dark?’

 

‘The Nazgûl have gone,’ Elladan joined them now. He had Maedhros’ knife in his hand that glowed intensely silver-blue in the dark, and his eyes were bright with excitement.

 

Too bright, thought Elrohir and scrutinized him briefly; there was something odd about his brother’s demeanor. Too bright, too alert. Almost feverish….

 

‘Even they fear whatever it is in there.’ Elladan nodded towards the doors that, for now, kept the Balrog within. He helped Erestor wedge the beam more firmly against the doors. ‘That will not keep it for long,’ he observed unnecessarily for even as he spoke the doors buckled slightly and Elrohir wrapped his hand in the edge of his jerkin for the surface was too hot to touch now. ‘We had best flee while we still can.’

 

A roar that blasted the air around them and the great heavy doors rattled ominously.

 

‘Yes. We should go. Now.’ Elrohir looked at Glorfindel and turned to Elladan, reached out one hand to catch at his arm. In the strange red-tinted gloom, he peered at Elladan closely. ‘You look terrible. Were you injured at all?’

 

‘No. A mere scratch.’

 

Suddenly Erestor swiveled his head towards Elladan. ‘A scratch? Where? How did you get it?’ he asked sharply. He grabbed Elladan’s arm and pulled his sleeve up to reveal a tiny wound. Erestor’s face was white and he stared at Elladan in horror. ‘You threw yourself between Khamûl and me!’ he said angrily. ‘His blade touched you.’

 

‘A mere scratch.’ Elladan pulled away from him irritated. ‘Here is a Balrog come and you talk of scratches! Better that we flee now and tell Elrond so he can send a troop. Or even better, Gandalf.’

 

Again, there was a tremendous thunder and the doors were pushed hard, a crack of fiery red appeared between the doors.

 

‘Brace the doors!’ shouted Erestor. Elrohir turned and leaned his arms against the burning metal doors. Beside him Elladan and Glorfindel braced themselves and pushed back hard but though they strained and pushed with all their might, they could not close the crack. Something, some great pressure was forcing them open. Elrohir groaned with the effort. He felt his skin seared with heat but he did not dare pull away. The huge bronze doors creaked open a fraction more.

 

‘You don’t understand!’ Erestor shouted over the sudden roar of flames from within the Óromardë. ‘That was a Morgul blade.’

 

Elrohir stared at Erestor in horror. He was about to speak but any words were drowned by a bellow of fury. A hand gripped his arm and he looked up into Glorfindel’s noble face that was pale but resolved.

 

‘I cannot leave,’ Glorfindel was lit with the fiery glow that even now seeped beneath the doors, between the cracks in the roof and walls. ‘Go, all of you! You must leave now. This is my battle, not yours. Go. Alert Elrond and Mithrandir. Tell them what has happened and that they must summon Galadriel and come here, all three. That is the only way I think, to finish this.’

 

‘We will not leave you to this!’ Elladan gestured angrily. ‘You think us craven!’

 

But Elrohir was silent and exchanged a look with Glorfindel. Then he said quietly. ‘Elladan. You are wounded. We must raise the alarm, fetch help.’

 

Elladan opened his mouth to protest but Erestor flung out a hand to him. ‘You have a scratch, yes. But it is from a Morgul blade. You have to leave! We will hold this demon but it cannot be for long. Go!’ He shoved Elladan away from the door, his face urgent, serious. ‘Now!’

 

But Elladan pulled away from him defiantly. ‘No! I will not leave you! It is why we are here. I felt your danger in Lothlorien. It cannot be that we serve no purpose!’ he cried but there was something odd and hysterical in his manner. ‘Maedhros’ knife brought me here. Look!’ And he held it out and the glow had intensified so it was a tongue of silver-blue flame and seemed to leap and flicker towards the doors.

 

Elrohir grabbed the knife from Elladan and shoved it towards Erestor. ‘Here. Take it then since it seems to want to be here.’ He faced his brother now. ‘So now there is no reason for you to stay. Come. We have to let father know, and Gandalf. It is as Glorfindel says.’ Small rocks and pebbles pattered around them and they felt the Tower shake.

 

Suddenly, as if the knife somehow sustained Elladan, now that he no longer had it, he slumped slightly and Erestor caught him with a cry of consternation. ‘Please Elladan,’ he pleaded. ‘Go. For me. I cannot help Glorfindel while you linger.’

 

Elrohir felt his brother’s resolve slip and he took the chance to grab Elladan’s sleeve and shoved Elladan ahead of him, almost grateful that his brother was weakened for he would not have succeeded otherwise.

 

They ran blindly into the dark that closed over them like a glove, and after the roar of flame bursting through the doors the darkness was complete. Elrohir pulled Elladan after him, aware of the rasp of his brother’s breath, aware that Elladan stumbled often. A red glow suddenly flared over the walls, the roof, lit the cavernous empty halls ahead and he knew that was the moment that Glorfindel and Erestor had cast the great doors open and plunged into the burning heat of the Hall. Just then a tremendous bellow reverberated through the ruined tower, brought showers of small stones pattering around them.

 

Had it not been for Elladan he would have gone back. In his heart he felt the pull of his own courage and loyalty to both of his beloved mentors and teachers, friends whom he loved and he felt his heart squeeze in his chest. But he loved his brother more and so he shoved Elladan ahead of him and would not stop. Their feet clattered down the wide stone steps and into the empty darkness below. Here there was a little light but it was dim, sepia daylight easing through the cracks in the roof. Elladan’s breath was coming hard and he seemed to almost wheeze. When Elrohir looked at him, he saw blue light was seeping from Elladan’s skin, like his fëa bled into the shadows. He did not stop.

 

Until he heard the scrape of iron and knew that the Nazgûl had not fled as they had thought. They merely waited.

 

Elrohir turned his head and pierced the dark with his sharp grey eyes. He felt Elladan slump against him then and tightened his arm around him.

 

Rávëyon.

 

Aícanaro hissed in the dark and Elrohir felt the blade’s lust for old power, sorcery. Killing the fell beast that he realised now had indeed belonged to the Nazgûl, had not even whetted the ancient blade’s appetite but the prospect of the Witchking and Khamûl the Red awoke Aícanaro’s lust. Elrohir himself would have turned and fought had Elladan’s rasping breaths not filled his ears, and fear seized his heart, not of the Nazgûl, but that he might lose his beloved brother to Shadow.

 

You might spare him much if you heed me now.

 

A Elrohir blinked slowly once. Elladan was heavy against him now and he could see shadows move ahead of them, passing before the half open door. They would never reach it. In his heart he felt a terrible sadness and loss that they would die here at the mercy of the Nazgûl and above Glorfindel and Erestor would fall to the terrible demon of fire. It seemed such a waste.

 

It does not have to be.

 

He clenched his teeth and gripped Elladan more tightly. ‘We run for the door,’ he murmured into Elladan’s hair and felt his brother nod slightly. ‘Can you hold your sword?’ he asked and peered into Elladan’s fever-bright eyes. How quickly the Morgul sorcery had taken hold! ‘You must hold on for me, brother. You cannot leave me.’

 

There was a flicker of movement in the sepia light and from the shadows emerged the tall darkness that was Angmar. His iron crown spiked the heavy air and it seemed that the thin black shroud spread like ink in water, drifted in ragged tendrils spreading outwards. Horror gripped Elrohir as the tendrils writhed about them, twisted about Elladan and Elrohir slashed down with Aícanaro; the black tendril lashed about as if in agony and fled back.

 

You can save him with but a word.

 

Now Khamûl was there too and Elrohir stopped. He glanced from one wraith to the other for he could not see a way past them. Suddenly there was a terrible roaring from above and a belch of crimson light flared through the dark. Elrohir was not the only one to startle for the Nazgûl too lifted their swords and edged away. Remembering that they could be defeated, although not killed, by fire, Elrohir wondered if he should chance the Balrog and so escape the Nazgûl. But one look at Elladan’s pale face decided him and he hefted his brother up so Elladan’s arm was more securely slung over Elrohir’s shoulder and tightened his grip about his waist.

 

‘The only word I have for you is this: begone!’ he shouted against the roar that bellowed again from above and shook the walls of the ruined tower. ‘You may wait for the demon to destroy the tower if that is what you wish, but I will be long gone!’

 

Tell us where is the One and we will stand aside. You have seen it. We can tell. You reek of it and it calls to your precious blood, it speaks to that in you which desires power, lusts.

 

‘You will stand aside because you fear me!’ cried Elrohir with a defiance he did not feel. He slashed the air with Aícanaro. It was met by an old iron blade that did not give. Khamûl stood before him and the air was deathly cold.

 

There will be a day when you call us. Your savage revenge only hides the truth.

 

Horror struck him dumb for a moment and suddenly Elladan’s breath stopped. He made a choking cry and Elrohir turned to him helpless. Then suddenly he breathed again. When Elrohir looked back towards Khamûl, Angmar was closer too. Too close. He felt the fear in his belly churn and his blood was cold. Elladan slumped against him.

 

How will you tell your father that you stood and watched? How will you tell your pure brother? They will not understand your unclean thoughts, your dark lust.

 

How did they know? How did Angmar know the unspeakable truth of his darkness? How could they know that he…? A cry tore its way from his wretched heart, from his chest and burst into the air. ‘Never! I will never call you or heed your master!’ He let the words grind out through his teeth. ‘You are but slaves of Shadow and are nothing.’ He pulled Elladan closer, hefted him so he could hold his brother more tightly, felt him breathe in and out –but how slow it was!

 

My master calls you. He understands as no one else. He would set you apart and give you great honour. When it is time, but speak the words of Ash Nazg and I will come. You will save one you love

 

Then, astonishingly, Angmar raised his ancient broadsword and stepped back to allow Elrohir to pass.

 

We will come for you at nightfall.

 

Elrohir did not wait to question the deed; it was done and he dragged an unresisting Elladan through the dark and burst through the broken door to the Tower and out into thin daylight. He gasped for breath and turned his head once to see black shapes moving in the shadows. It baffled him that Angmar had let him go but he had no time to think and hefted Elladan against him.

 

‘Why did they step aside?’ Elladan asked weakly and Elrohir shook his head, a bitter relief that Elladan had not heard what Angmar had said for Elladan would not understand; his gentle, sweet brother would hate him for what he did that day in the darkness of the Orc dens…how he had stood, Aícanaro lusting in his hand and …

 

‘I know not….’ he said quickly, shaking his head free of that torment. ‘Come. Let us hasten whilst we may.’

 

‘What of Glorfindel and Erestor? We cannot just leave them.’ Elladan’s voice was so distressed that Elrohir looked down at him. A light sheen of sweet was on Elladan’s brow and his skin was ghastly pale. He looked downwards so Elrohir could not see his eyes but he could hear his rasping breath. ‘It is why we came here, to save Erestor.’

 

‘You have already done that.’ Elrohir said. ‘Fool that you are. You saved him from this.’

He wiped his hand tenderly over Elladan’s brow- his skin was icy cold even though he sweated.

 

‘Even though I have abandoned him to a Balrog,’ Elladan said agitated. He struggled weakly against Elrohir for a moment as if he would go back but Elrohir pulled him onwards down the narrow twisting track that led from the Tower. An echo of the Balrog shook the Tower as they left it and the empty windows flickered redly for a moment like eyes had opened briefly and closed again.

 

They passed the place they had seen the fell beast and Elrohir felt a satisfaction that they had thwarted Angmar at least in that. And he wondered if they made enough time now, if they could escape the Nazgûl completely, could they reach Imladris in time that Elrond could help Elladan as he had Frodo. Renewed, he pulled Elladan forwards but his brother stumbled into him.

 

‘Come. We must hurry,’ he murmured into his brother’s hair.

 

It almost seemed that the path itself was against him, twisting and tripping him with tree roots and sudden holes that were deep and treacherous. Elladan leaned against him more and more heavily and his breath became harsher, a wheezing panting that hurt Elrohir to hear it.

 

Night was falling and he heard some heavy beast crashing through the woods below. It must be the other fell beast…the Nazgûl’s steed. So they had not gone then. The thought was heavy in his breast but he did not stop. Perhaps if he could reach Barakhir and Baraghur they could yet outrun it. But in all truth, when the winged creature had passed over them before, Barakhir had bolted and he did not think that his faithful horse could carry both of them and outrun it.

 

They had reached the water margins of Phellanthir and the mud flats shone silver in the dimming light. This was where Glorfindel had dragged Legolas from the falling tower, Elrohir realised, and the thought of the Woodelf ignited that same unreasonable fury as before. He could not quite understand what it was about Legolas Thranduillion but he used his anger to give him strength and energy and hoisted Elladan up once more, half carrying him now

 

‘Forgive me, brother, I cannot go on.’ Elladan leaned against the tree panting.

 

‘You must,’ Elrohir cried but Elladan slumped and slowly slid down the tree trunk to his knees.

 

‘I cannot…Please, Elrohir. Let me rest.’

 

Elrohir knelt before him and put his hands on either side of his brother’s face, lifted his chin and forced him to look up. Elrohir gasped; his brother’s eyes had changed. The softness of his grey eyes that were such a contract to Elrohir’s own sharp hardness had gone and his pupils too; he looked blind though he looked towards Elrohir as if he were not. Horrified Elrohir passed his hand before Elladan’s face.

 

‘So you know,’ Elladan said softly. ‘I do not see the world as I did…I see the shadow-world. And it is terrifying.’

 

‘I will build a fire,’ Elrohir said in quiet desperation. He smoothed his brother’s hair back from his face, loving him so his heart felt like it would burst. ‘It will keep the Nazgûl at bay. At least until Glorfindel and Erestor join us.’ But he had little hope for their friends. Surely they would perish? And so would Elladan, and he. They would all die here in the shadow of Phellanthir.

 

He settled Elladan at the foot of the tree and threw his sable cloak over him. The air was cold now it grew dark and he shivered a little but quickly cast about for kindling and dry wood. But in this dank and marshy place, there was little wood that was not rotten and damp. He threw a piece of black, rotting wood from him with a cry of frustration.

 

From over the mad flats came an answering call that had him turning about in fear. A shriek that pierced the air and set his teeth on edge.

 

‘They come.’ Elladan’s voice was so strained now that Elrohir could barely hear him, but he stretched out his hand weakly to Elrohir. ‘Leave me, Elrohir,’ he rasped. ‘Fly this place.’

 

The hunting calls came closer now, piercing screams that came swiftly over the water like mist and with a cry, Elrohir pulled his brother to him. ‘I would die for you, Elladan. Would I could take this from you!’

 

And from behind him, there was a thin sneer.

 

You still can. I can take this from him if you would. Or will you die with him, for we are hungry.

 

Elrohir swallowed and then he took Elladan’s face in his. Elladan’s eyes were almost white now and he could not see, his chest heaved and Elrohir knew that the breath was leaving his body.

 

Do it, he said.

 

And Angmar came out of the shadows, Khamûl in his wake.

 

Come then Rávëyon. Come to us.

 

Elrohir walked towards the Nazgûl, arms outstretched and at his hip, Aícanaro hissed in impotent rage.

 

 

0o0o

 

 

The thunderous roar within the Óromardë had grown louder each time as if the Balrog within grew stronger, came closer; even through the thick, tightly closed doors Glorfindel could hear its furious rage. He pressed his back against the doors, which groaned and bent slowly as if under a great weight. The heavy bronze had grown hot and he wondered how much longer he could stand to even touch the doors. Was this at last his destiny, his fate? Had he been sent back only to die again, not upon the Cristhorn but in this dark, abandoned place that was full of sorcery and evil.

 

There was a strange lull in the noise for a moment and Glorfindel leaned in, listening. He saw that Erestor was staring off into the dark where Elrohir and Elladan had disappeared. In his face there was turmoil and Glorfindel thought, longing. He wished Erestor had gone too, and protected Elladan from the Nazgûl, helped Elrohir guard him.

 

Erestor still stared after them though the sound of their running footsteps had faded. ‘Do you think this is easy?’ he demanded to Glorfindel’s unspoken question but he did not turn his head. ‘To let my…our boys go when Elladan is so dangerously hurt?’ He kept his eyes fixed in the darkness that stretched away that had closed about the sons of Elrond and swallowed their footsteps. ‘It is not.’

 

Glorfindel said nothing. He knew the love Erestor had for both; he had been their mentor, tutor, and friend when Elrond could not. But his deeper love for Elladan still was unacknowledged by Erestor, and unrecognized by Elladan.

 

Suddenly thunder pounded within the Óromardë. It reverberated, thumped in the air and Glorfindel smelled that shockingly familiar brimstone and fire. He was shot back to the memory of the Cristhorn.

 

That stink of brimstone and fire that was Balrogs and Dragons. Smoke poured down the mountainside from the burning city and the bells rang frantically. Ahead of him, the line of fleeing elves and one Man disappeared into the smoke and Glorfindel turned, Rilmápentë blazing in his hand, drawn against the pursuit. In a moment frozen forever in Glorfindel’s perfect memory Idril turned her lovely head and met his eyes. She saw him as if for the first time, understood his love for her and there was love in her eyes too, but it was love born of gratitude for he sacrificed himself to spare her, her son, her beloved. Whereas Glorfindel’s love for her was deep enough that he would do so. Behind him, the mountain shook with the arrival of the Balrog…Ruinátoró.

 

Now the doors groaned and ground open a little more, Glorfindel and Erestor braced themselves with all their might but slowly, inexorably they were pushed back by the pressure from within. Glancing quickly inside the hall, Glorfindel saw that it was lit with red fire, the heat unbearable. A furious bellow deafened him.

 

I have come for you.

 

He knew then.

 

This was what I am here for, he thought. To make sure Ruinátoró did not escape the Glass and come to Sauron’s aid.

 

And suddenly it hit him.

 

‘What is this place?’ he whispered.

 

Erestor glanced at him. ‘You have just realised, have you?’ His voice was grim and determined. ‘Did you not wonder how it is that Maedhros is here, and the Valarauki?’

 

Glorfindel did not know if Maedhros was there, although Erestor was insistent. But he did know with absolute certainty that here was Ruinátoró. ‘Surely you cannot believe that this is the Everlasting Dark?’ Glorfindel said and his voice was low with absolute horror.

 

‘Yes,’ Erestor said firmly. ‘This is some sort of portal, or doorway. It is a door to the Void.’

 

Glorfindel felt his mouth open in shock and he felt all the hairs on his neck stiffen in horror. ‘If that is true then the Balrog is not the only demon…it is not the only thing that could find its way here.’ Glorfindel thought of twisted spirits that Morgoth seized and warped and corrupted were ahead of him… Dragons and Balrogs, werewolves, Orcs; the legions that defeated the Noldor, that trampled Fingon into the mud, that wreaked havoc and brought Gondolin down. If they escaped the Mirror, there was no end to the destruction.

 

Erestor nodded his head towards the opening door and said matter-of-factly, ‘In there is Moringhotto.’

 

Glorfindel’s hand dropped to his side. ‘Morgoth…’ He found he could not speak for dread seized him like a cold hand on his neck and his belly churned. ‘There would be no end to it…’ he said hoarsely. ‘Is this the Dagor Dagoreth?’*

 

‘Now you begin to see,’ Erestor said softly. His eyes glimmered amber in the hellish light ‘Maedhros stands alone between us and the Dark. But he is not alone if we also are here.’ He showed his teeth but it was a grimace rather than a smile. ‘I would not leave my lord. He is there. I saw him.’ He held the dagger that Elrohir had snatched from Elladan and given him to cut short Elladan’s objections to leaving. It gleamed and glittered in the fiery light. But Glorfindel did not forget that Erestor carried another blade, the Morgul blade that had kept at bay the Nazgûl. ‘If we are to die, Glorfindel, I could not wish for better company!’ Erestor suddenly declared and he grinned again. For a moment Glorfindel saw the warrior of the First Age that was Erestor, at the height of the power and glory of the Noldor.

 

‘If Morgoth is in there, he and I have unfinished business,’ said Glorfindel grimly and let the memory of fair Gondolin ignite, flare up in all of its pristine glorious beauty, remembered its silver bells and waterfalls, the tall white towers and wide tree-lined streets, its squares of fountains and shady trees…Ecthelion. Turgon, Salgant, Voronwë…his friends. And there was the revenge still owed for Finrod, Fingolfin and Fingon. Even Fëanor. He saw Erestor’s eyes widen and knew that he too was revealed, as the Reborn and the Returned.

 

‘Let it not come to that, my friend. Let us finish it before it comes to that.’

 

Glorfindel pushed himself away from the doors and turned and faced the hellish light and fire that seeped through the crack between the doors. He drew the white sword, Eruvátorë, forged by Aulë himself and blessed by Manwë…and wished instead for Rilmápentë, how it fit in his hand, how it seemed to sing when he lifted it, forged by Fëanor… bloody Fëanor! Always Fëanor.

 

Erestor had drawn his blade and they looked at each other briefly and then shoved the doors wide open and burst through into the blazing heat. A hot wind blasted Glorfindel’s long hair back from his faces and he narrowed his eyes. Then he strode forwards, Erestor at his side.

 

The Óromardë had become a furnace, the heat unbearable. The walls were red with fire. As they burst in, there was a thunderous roar that deafened Glorfindel. It was worse than on the Cristhorn for then he had been under the open sky but here in this enclosed and evil place, the bellowing rage reverberated and thundered around the trembling walls. The marble floor seemed molten under the blaze of fire from the end of the Hall.

 

But the Glass still held.

 

Just.

 

Its thin surface bulged and undulated like the skin of water. Within, a great shape struggled and fought. Flames roared and blazed along its skin, and its great horns were blackened, wings of fire spread and filled the Glass. Its colossal fists were clenched and battered the Glass that bent and flexed like a skin and did not break.

 

Glorfindel knew the moment it perceived him for the Balrog paused. It moved its tiny red eyes across the hall and fastened on him.

 

At the sight of him, the Balrog drew itself to its full height and roared in fury. Then it drew back its massive frame and suddenly hurled itself against the Glass. The surface bulged horribly towards them and Glorfindel saw out of the corner of his eye, that Erestor stepped back; he could not blame him but he himself stood fast. As he had so long, long ago in Gondolin. When he had lost everything to the Balrogs and Dragons. To Morgoth.

 

Tongues of flame licked across the Glass and leapt out towards Glorfindel. Fire cracked over his body and he sprang back, grabbing Erestor as he did.

 

‘Beware his whip!’ he shouted. ‘It will bind you fast.’ He whirled his own sword and slashed against it, but the blade merely slid over the thongs…and he realised then that the Mirror still held.

 

At that moment a crack of silver-blue shot across the Glass.

 

‘The Mirror is breaking!’ he shouted and shoved Erestor back. ‘Quick! Stand back!’

 

But it was not a crack on the mirror; instead the silver swirled and turned swiftly, flashed, graceful as a shoal of silver fish. Glorfindel could not help the gasp that escaped his lips for the silver-blue light shifted and fleetingly, he thought it resolved into the figure of a warrior. The Balrog seemed to shuffle back, gather itself and then hurled itself against the Glass once more. The silver light leapt in front of the demon, like a blade. Where it cut, black stripes tore across the Balrog’s fiery flesh and Glorfindel saw that beneath its huge wings the Balrog’s body was blackened and bled black ichor.

 

‘What is that?’ he shouted to Erestor in wonder for whatever it was seemed to be fighting the Balrog and the demon was beaten back.

 

‘That is my lord. Maedhros,’ said Erestor with pride.

 

Suddenly there was a cracking sound and again, fire leapt out of the Glass and lashed across the floor of the Óromardë. The marble became hot beneath their feet and Glorfindel’s long hair streamed back in the scorching wind that blasted from the Balrog. A tremendous bellow thundered through the hall, shook the walls and the floor shuddered. A long whip of flame had lashed out, stretching the thin surface of the mirror that was like the skin of water yet it still did not break. Glorfindel threw out an arm to hold Erestor back, realising that as yet, he could do nothing for the Glass held and whilst the demon could not reach him, he could not reach it either without risking cracking the Glass.

 

They both stood back for a moment and breathlessly watched the swirling, fiery bowl that the Glass had become as the surface bent and buckled and stretched under the Balrog’s battering assault.

 

The silver-blue light dashed across in front the demon and a flashing blade blocked the Balrog’s own fiery sword, the whip lashed about the silver-blue figure and it whirled about.

 

Glorfindel gasped, for this time the light resolved into a warrior; long, long copper-bronze hair, so distinctive, and that lovely, unsurpassed face that he remembered in Tirion, that had belonged to Nelyafinwé Maitimo Fëanorian. Who had become Maedhros. Man of Steel.

 

It is true, he thought amazed. Erestor is right.

 

How it was that Maedhros was here and battling with the Balrog, Glorfindel did not know but instinctively he drew his bow and fired an arrow towards the demon.

 

It glanced off the Glass as if it were a mere paper dart. Glorfindel swore and though both his and Erestor’s swords were drawn and their courage high, they were useless.

 

He could see that Maedhros had a sword that blazed white light and on his right arm there was a shield though he had had no hand to hold it in his life but he had borne a shield nevertheless.

 

Ruinátoró drew back, huge, towered over Maedhros so the great black horns disappeared into the Dark, its small red eyes calculating, cunning and suddenly it thrust its head forwards in a resounding roar and flames burst from it. But Maedhros threw up his shield and the flames bounced off it, blazed with light. Taking his chance, he hefted his bright white sword and hurled it at the beast. It flew through the reddened darkness like a lightning bolt and struck the demon in the shoulder. The Balrog threw its head back in pain and staggered backwards. Its great hands clawed at the blade and tore it from flesh, hurled it far away into the Dark.

 

For a moment, Maedhros stood silhouetted against the churning flames. His sword was gone and he had only his shield.

 

Erestor leapt forwards then, and almost skidded to a halt at the Glass for he could go no further, his face was lit by the demonic light within.

 

The Balrog suddenly leaned down and roared, blasting Maedhros with fire. Maedhros threw up his shield again and the flames washed over the shield harmlessly. Infuriated, the Balrog cracked its whip so the thongs hissed and burned. It cracked it again and this time, its fiery tongue curled about Maedhros’ translucent form and he hacked down swiftly with the edge of his shield, sprang free and now set the shield on its side and sent it arcing, cutting through the flames that burst from the Balrog and slicing into its exposed belly.

 

Black ichor burst from the demon’s wound and it bellowed again and charged towards Maedhros, slammed him against the Glass so it flexed and bowled and the Glass turned silver and red. Glorfindel thought it must surely break this time. The walls of the Óromardë trembled and shook and small stones, rubble showered down around him.

 

‘My lord!’ Erestor cried. ‘I will come!’ Glorfindel saw that Erestor pressed against the Glass now, sinking into its cold, in his hand was the dagger Elrohir had thrust at him; Maedhros’ own knife. Glorfindel pulled him back and looked at his old friend with compassion for they could do nothing.

 

‘You cannot. You may break the Glass and then the Balrog can get out.’

 

‘We cannot just stand by.’ Erestor struggled against Glorfindel but even he knew and his struggle was weak.

 

Beyond the Glass the Balrog had staggered back for a moment, black ichor dripped from its shoulder and belly now but neither would seemed to have weakened it and Maedhros was defenseless. But as the demon stood back, he slipped under the demon’s guard running swiftly he stooped to retrieve his shield for his sword was far from here. But he was weary, the Balrog had thrown him hard…Glorfindel could see the strain, see the heave and wince as he breathed.

 

Suddenly Glorfindel was submerged in a flood of memories that were not his; Angband. Fire.

 

He had stood proud before Morgoth- still denying him. He had still been Nelyo then, Maitimo. Maedhros was as much a creation of Morgoth as the Valaraukar.

 

‘I will never join you,’ he had shouted defiantly, though the chains were so heavy that his legs trembled with the strain of standing tall, and his wounds grievous. But he would not bow. And then preposterously, he inclined his head as graciously as the burning thong about his neck allowed, and declared to Moringhotto and his demonic court, ‘If you but return what is ours, what belongs to my family, I will leave you in peace. Give me the Silmarils and I will retreat beyond the East of the Mountains.’

 

Those bright, bright jewels had leapt in response to his voice, his blood, his precious blood and they had burned Moringhotto for he had writhed and a low cry escaped him. ‘Let the Valaraukar have him.’

 

He had learned pain then. Pain beyond imagining and he had almost broken. Gothmog. Ruinátoró. Lungorthrim. Coldagnir* Bealuwearg. When they had finished with him, there was almost nothing left…but revenge, fury. Love.

 

He looked out into the shadows beyond the Glass and saw, unbelievably, that the two blurred figures shining beyond the darkened Glass were standing in the light. He frowned for their faces swam out of the blurred light and suddenly for a moment one of them looked at him; their eyes met.

 

Laurëfindessë! It cannot be. You died! Maedhros staggered astonished towards the Glass and oblivious to the Balrog now so great his wonder. His hope.

 

That moment was his downfall for in his bafflement he let his guard drop and the Balrog seized its chance. It leapt forwards, the fiery sword stabbing down. Pain exploded like white stars, fire burned through him from his chest to his belly so great that he cried out, and crashed to his knees near the Glass. He threw up the shield again, knowing the Balrog would blast him, pound him, trample him into the ground if it could, as it had Fingon. Its great fist clanged down upon the shield and his arm buckled, cracked under the sheer strength. Pain lanced through bones and sinew, crunched together and he felt the snap of tendons and bone. His arm fell uselessly by his side and he slumped against the Glass, Silver-blue light leaked from the wounds in his chest and arm, drifted in the scorching heat and incinerated, burned up and evaporated. He felt himself shiver and tremble, knew he was slowly disintegrating and his light bled into the Dark.

 

Glorfindel was suddenly shot back into his himself. He shook himself for the influence of the Óromardë was disorientating. The Balrog was roaring and stamping its huge feet in triumph and Erestor was shouting and reaching into the Glass again so that his hand appeared on the other side, wrapped about in the skin of the Glass. Glorfindel too found himself pressing against it and sorrow overwhelmed him, enough to break his heart. Such loss…He could not bear it, he could not bear to stand here and simply watch as yet another of the great Elf-lords was beaten to a pulp by the Balrogs.

 

No. He would not bear it. Even if the risks were great, the Balrog was here and if Maedhros was gone, it could break the Glass. He took a breath. And then another. Summoned his strength. He felt that strange charge building in him, surging through his hands like lightning, as he had only experienced since his Return.

 

He could see the Balrog clearly now, its dark figure wreathed in flame, its huge wings outstretched as it roared in triumph. It threw out its arms and bellowed a challenge. Stamped its huge hooves and advanced upon Maedhros.

 

I have come for you. I have come. It stalked towards the Glass and raised its mighty fists, its sword, its whip of flame, small red eyes fixed upon Glorfindel’s shining figure. The Guardian is vanquished and now I will destroy him! Then I will break through and wreak my revenge upon the Slayer.

 

You will not come here! cried Glorfindel and drove his Power into the Glass, blasted it with all his might. A wall of white light exploded. Power surged, silent and sub-hearing so it was like being under water; a muffled boom shuddering through the Darkness and the light was like a beacon.

 

The Balrog staggered backwards and shook its head with its great black horns as if trying to free itself of something and staggered again.

 

Glorfindel knew one blast was not enough and gathered himself but beside him, Erestor was not idle. He was pushing something slowly through the Glass- something that gleamed dully, a dark blade. Glorfindel gasped and clasped Erestor’s arm to stop him. It was the Morgul blade. Erestor looked at him with tears in his eyes and smiled. ‘It is what he needs. I know this. Trust me.’ It slid through the Glass like water until the hungry blade glinted redly in the fiery blaze of the Valarauki.

 

Glorfindel turned to watch Maedhros; he did not take it at first. His eyes were fixed upon Erestor with wonder and love, but when his fingers touched the Morgul blade he flinched. But then, understanding, his hand clasped the hilt and he smiled grimly.

 

‘You will do my bidding now.’ Glorfindel heard Maedhros’ words as clearly as if there were no Glass between them and he saw how Maedhros lifted an eyebrow, a shockingly familiar gesture, as if the Morgul blade had spoken back, spat words of defiance and fury at being used by its creator’s relentless enemy. Blue-silver sparks drifted upwards in the red-lit darkness and Maedhros’ form trembled and faded a little more. There was a quiet cry and Glorfindel glanced at Erestor, who reached again for the man dying in the Glass, who had already died tenfold in battling the enemies of Eru.

 

The Balrog had recovered from Glorfindel’s blast and cracked its whip, the thongs hissing and licking at the red-lit darkness. Stalking towards the fallen Maedhros, Ruinátoró roared and bellowed so the hall shook and stones scattered around them. Then it raised the fiery blade for the final killing blow.

 

‘Now, Glorfindel. One more now,’ Erestor said quietly.

 

Glorfindel gathered Power to him; it is like a magnet and iron filings, he half-thought not knowing where that idea came from. The white charge surged through him and he raised his hands, let the charge tingle through his fingers until he was ready. Blasted white Power through the Glass like a bolt of white lightning. Black ichor burst from the Balrog’s wound and Ruinátoró staggered and bellowed. With a deafening roar, it hurled itself against the Glass. The surface bowled and stretched; a blast of heat, intense pressure, and a silver line appeared in the Glass like a hairline crack. The roar shook the walls and ceiling and more rocks and pebbles showered onto the splintered marble floor.

 

Ruinátoró drew its arm back to drive the fiery blade into Maedhros’ fading form when something glinted, something darkly glittering twisted in Maedhros’ translucent hand and he forced himself staggering to his feet to face the Balrog. It threw back its head and roared and at that moment, Maedhros leapt at the Balrog and drove the Morgul blade deep into its heart. Twisting and screaming, Ruinátoró clawed at Maedhros who hung on, driving the dagger more deeply; already black ichor and gobbets of fire sputtered into the darkness, black stripes burst across its chest where its fire was swiftly extinguished. Suddenly Maedhros was thrown off and flew, crashing into the Glass as the Balrog was unmade by the same dark magic that had twisted a spirit of Fire into the demon that Ruinátoró had become. A final bellow spilt the cold silence and rattled stones loose in the Óromardë, its walls shook and slowly, slowly, the Balrog toppled and as it crashed to the floor; it splintered and dissolved into a thousand tiny tongues of fire, which cooled and faded into the dark.

 

Glorfindel leaned over, breathing hard and chest heaving, exhausted from hurling the white bolts of Power as if he had fought all day long. He felt his legs tremble with weakness as if he might fall and leaned over, hands on his knees. He was aware that Erestor had thrown himself against the cold Glass and was pushing his hands deep and now he pressed his face, his chest as if he might penetrate and pass through to the Other Side. The cold sank but around him were silver fractures of light.

 

‘Erestor!’ Glorfindel cried hoarsely. ‘Stop. It is breaking!’ He reached out to catch his friend’s arm, to pull him back but when Erestor turned his face to Glorfindel, his face was wet and his eyes were full of loss and yearning.

 

‘Then let it break and I will bring him out! I will not let him go alone into the Dark,’ cried Erestor. He turned back to Maedhros’ bleeding shadow. ‘Wait for me, my lord! I beg you! I will follow. You will not be alone!’

 

Maedhros’ translucent form was ghostly now. He rolled over and pushed himself back so he was leaning back against the Glass, one hand pressed against the wound in his chest. Silver-blue sparks drifted off, bled into the Dark. There was nothing left of the Balrog. Maedhros breathed hard against the agony and then turned his lovely face towards the Glass, looked directly at Glorfindel over Erestor’s head and Glorfindel’s breath caught for a moment as it had once, long, long ago, two lifetimes ago when he was a boy and Maitimo Nelyafinwë Féanáro had turned and looked at him in the same kindly way and smiled.

 

‘Laurëfindessë,’ he gasped. ‘It is you…I thought I was dreaming…And Nármo, little Nármo.’ He smiled down at Erestor and Glorfindel found himself moved beyond tears.

 

How could the Valar condemn an elf to such an existence? he thought angrily. He understood suddenly how Maedhros bled light, for it was not ‘blood’ but his fëa. It hurt to be torn apart like this… each particle felt the loss of its whole. Each particle was a single note in the Song of the whole and it ached to be apart, yearned to be one soul again.

 

Maedhros’ form wobbled a little in the Glass where he still slumped. His face was full of wonder. ‘Nármo” he said again, smiling gently, but his voice was weaker, quieter and it sounded now like he was a long way away. He reached out to press against the glass but he no longer had enough substance and the Glass did not give. Erestor lifted his own hand and met the palm through the cold Glass, and somehow Glorfindel knew that Maedhros wanted to stay there touching another elf, another fëa, another spirit. Glorfindel found his face was wet.

 

‘My lord.’

 

Glorfindel almost turned away for the emotion, the loss and yearning in Erestor’s face, his voice. And the tragedy of Maedhros’ fate.

 

‘When I was last here…Tyelpo it was who called me…’ The fading silver ghost looked puzzled, stared off into the Dark. ‘Sauron was here.’

 

‘Tyelpo is dead. Sauron killed him,’ Erestor said bitterly and Maedhros did not turn his head but stayed looking out onto the Dark. He nodded once, as if acknowledging what he already knew and Glorfindel wondered that he had not gone mad, had stayed so strong for all the years and years and years of persecution by Morgoth and the cruelty of the Valar in denying them at the last, of losing everything he loved, that still Maedhros battled.

 

‘I am glad you yet live.’ Maedhros said to Erestor and smiled. Then his face changed. ‘Or are you both reborn?’ He glanced at Glorfindel as he spoke and there was sudden hope that blazed over his face and for a moment, his form solidified and light surged through him.

 

‘No,’ Erestor said so gently, so delicately for he knew what Maedhros was really asking, his forlorn hope. ‘I am not reborn, my lord. I yet live, though how I know not.’

 

The hope that had not yet died in Maedhros’ beautiful face almost hurt Glorfindel to see, and he looked away, unable to bear the next, inevitable question. ‘I am glad you have not endured that…and yet Glorfindel? You are reborn.’

 

The silver-grey mercurial eyes fixed upon Glorfindel with desperate, desperate hope and he steeled himself for he had been asked the question that hovered upon Maedhros’ lips many many times… but perhaps never with such tragic desperation.

 

‘And…are there others reborn?’ His voice was faint, trembled in the pool of fading silver light.

 

Oh, the pity of it, thought Glorfindel. He saw how the futile possibility that Fingon yet lived, existed somewhere had strengthened Maedhros and the silver light that bled from him had staunched briefly whilst he had hope…and he, Glorfindel, was about to dash that utterly and condemn him to oblivion in the Everlasting Dark where it was cold and his fëa was dispersed. But even as he hesitated, Maedhros’ form trembled so Glorfindel knew that his hesitation had already told Maedhros the truth; his silver-blue form grew transparent as the sparks flew off, bled into the absolute darkness and only the thinnest ghostly light was yet Maedhros.

 

‘Only I,’ he said slowly, ‘And Finrod.’

 

Fingon, beloved, beloved Fingon.

 

Glorfindel’s heart squeezed in a pounding ache, greater than anything he had ever known, greater than his bruised and hurt love for Idril and for the first time, he doubted if his love for her were real. He knew this was the effect of the Óromardë, but the intensity of the feelings almost crushed him and sent him to his knees on the hard marble floor. He found his own fingers scrabbling inside his tunic, reaching for that piece of faded, worn cloth that Maedhros still believed he carried against his heart, so faded now that the colour could not be told but for Maedhros it was as bright as it was the first day Fingon had raised a banner high and thrown back his head and laughed. Fingon had been all energy and movement.

 

‘Only you and Finrod? None other?’ The voice seemed further and further away as if coming from a greater and greater distance.

 

No Fingon then…Ah, Fingon.

 

Glorfindel found himself with his hand pressed against the Glass and in his thoughts was a silver-blue fragment of cloth; never forgotten though so much else was hard to hang on to. His fingers grasped at it and he brought it to his nose, closed his eyes, and buried himself in the smell of Fingon…at the last.

 

Fingon. Fingon. Fingon, he whispered so he would not forget as he felt himself slowly dissolve into a shower of silver-blue sparks. Erestor cried out and snatched at the sparks as they died but there was nothing but cold and Darkness.

 

‘No! Don’t go, my lord!’ Erestor pushed hard and almost reached the fading, dissipating silver-blue light. He only brushed his fingers against the sudden shower of sparks that floated like windflowers on the breeze.

 

Far off, on the edges of the Everlasting Dark, Glorfindel saw bright sparks and they were hurtling towards him. He narrowed his eyes against the pain, and the darkness to see better…but they were still too far.

 

Maitimo.

 

Too late.

 

 

0o0o

 

 

TBC


	11. Chapter 11

Beta; the fabulous Anarithilen.

Thank you to all those who leave reviews, it makes it worth writing it all down! SparkyTAs, Melusine, Alanic, Freddie, Reina de nieve, Layne Wolf, Elf with Redbull, Life’s Pilgrim, Curiouswombat, cheekybeak, Spiced wine, Riraito, Encairion for the last chapter. 

It’s about time I thanked all those who have marked this spin-off as favs and alerts and kudos on Ao3 since I began writing it: nimredel, Adviser of Imladris, Kitkatrox, frostyfrost, maki357, Ho-Ho-Noa, Medea Lugosi, paradis-artifiels, m capps, FwooperSong, claradevalletrueba, Dark Zeblock, ObsidianGlass, bookwrym6236, tracker arrow, Kenya, nimsaj, stroller, Estaron, Whyisthatclever,

 

Summary: Erestor and Glorfindel have gone to Phellanthir in response to Legolas’ insistence that Rhawion is trapped there. (see More Dangerous, Less Wise). They have entered the Tower and found one of the Nazgûl who had captured Rhawion’s fea and devoured it. The impact of an elven soul being lost had repercussions in Lothlorien and Rivendell. As a result, Gandalf left Rivendell and Elrohir and Elladan have already arrived in Phellanthir. They have killed one of the Nazgûls’ steeds and then entered the Tower to find Erestor and Glorfindel have found an artifact from the time of Celebrimbor, a mirror such as Galadriel has. However this is much more powerful and it does not only peer into Time, but is a door into the Dark. Angmar and Khamûl have been sent by Sauron to guard tis from Rivendell and during a fight, Khamûl at Erestor throws a Morgul bale but Elladan gets between them and is wounded. Glorfindel’s presence summons the sprit of a Balrog, the one he slew and which slew him in turn. It struggles to free itself from the Mirror and to enter Middle Earth but another spirit is also summoned, that of Maedhros and he defeats the demon but is destroyed as well. Meanwhile Elrohir has taken Elladan from Phellanthir and hopes to return to Imladris in time for Elrond to heal his brother but the Nazgûl who have been waiting for them intercepts them.

 

Chapter 11: The hunger

‘Those who used the Nine Rings became mighty in their day, kings, sorcerers, and warriors of old. They obtained glory and great wealth, yet it turned to their undoing. They had, as it seemed, unending life, yet life became unendurable to them. They could walk, if they would, unseen by all eyes in this world beneath the sun, and they could see things in worlds invisible to mortal men; but too often they beheld only the phantoms and delusions of Sauron. And one by one, sooner or later, according to their native strength and to the good or evil of their wills in the beginning, they fell under the thralldom of the ring that they bore and of the domination of the One, which was Sauron's. And they became forever invisible save to him that wore the Ruling Ring, and they entered into the realm of shadows. The Nazgûl were they, the Ring wraiths, the Úlairi, the Enemy's most terrible servants; darkness went with them, and they cried with the voices of death.’   
(The Silmarillion, "Of the Rings of Power and the Third Age") 

Rain suddenly poured, pattering on the leaves, drenching Elrohir’s upturned face, drumming on the hard ground and soaking the earth. But it did not touch the thin black shrouds of the Nazgûl; it almost seemed that the rain could not bear to touch them, or perhaps it simply passed through the wraiths as they emerged slowly, like shadows had merely coalesced into their cold, thin presence. The Witch King of Angmar stood, taller than any Man, utterly still, his iron crown spiked the grey dusk. Behind him from the darkness, emerged another but Elrohir knew it was Khamûl for ever was he at Angmar’s hand.

Around him the birds had fallen silent and not a creature stirred. In the hushed twilight there was only the sound of rain pattering on the leaves, it pebbled the flat silver water of the margins. 

Aícanaro…It was Khamûl who hissed the taunt. Powerless at last.

Elrohir had not drawn Aícanaro and he felt the sword’s restlessness, his rage at being left sheathed in spite of this danger. The winged reptile slain before they had entered the Tower had done nothing to dull Aícanaro’s hunger. But Elrohir did not draw the sword for he offered himself as a sacrifice for Elladan. 

‘I am not without price!’ Elrohir said in a low voice.

You will have your price. Your brother can leave.

‘No! Not enough.’ He kept his voice steady and gripped the hilt of Aícanaro to stop his hands from shaking. ‘You will make him whole him, save him, for if I give you myself he cannot return to Imladris alone.’

The Witch King glided towards him over the wet and muddy ground and left no mark. Briefly his empty hood turned towards Elladan as if contemplatively, and then turned back to Elrohir.

Do not think to bargain with us. We could have you both, now if it profited my lord.

‘You flatter yourself!’ Elrohir slowly walked towards the Nazgûl, the hairs on his neck and back and arms were stiff with fear, like frozen spikes. He felt his heart beat; this was the Nazgûl. They would devour him, devour his brother. The bright souls of the Sons of Thunder were light, energy, power that could feed these wraiths and he saw their hunger, feel the cold raw edge of it, like a howling emptiness in their bellies. How they starved.

Angmar was suddenly close; the air was ice-cold and thin shadows crowded about Elrohir, reached for him and something in him was utterly repulsed. But behind him, he heard Elladan’s breath heave and gasp so he gripped his heart and stopped himself from stepping back, turning and running for his life. He glanced briefly over his shoulder to where Elladan leaned against a tree. Shadows crowded closely and reached for Elladan, grasped at the blue sparks of his fëa seeping from that tiny wound. Elrohir spun back towards Elladan with a cry, sweeping Aícanaro before him and the shadows scurried back to cringe at the feet of the Witch King. Elrohir took his stand before Elladan, Aícanaro still drawn now and the dark blade almost hummed in anticipation. He felt its pressure upon him, its lust, the magic that wrought Aícanaro, brought it into being.

‘Elrohir,’ Elladan gasped, pushing himself upright. ’Please…leave me.’

‘Never!’ Elrohir threw over his shoulder. ‘Never.’

Angmar raised his mailed fist and opened it up, palm outwards towards Elrohir, inviting him to approach. The empty hood beneath the iron crown tilted slightly to one side in a gesture that Elrohir found unbearable but he could not say why. There was dread in the pit of his belly, his blood slowed and grew cold. He gritted his teeth and found his knuckles clenched.

‘You WILL heal him first,’ he cried defiantly. He let his own crimson energy surge around himself and his brother, let it flare and ignite. 

You acquiesce.

Elrohir ignored Elladan’s cry. ‘Heal him and then you can have me.’

When you are ours, you will have the power to heal him yourself.

Elrohir stared. ‘No. I do not trust you. Heal him first.’

There was complete stillness but for the patter of rain on the leaves, the iron-hard ground. A flutter of black shroud in the bitter cold wind. 

It has to be you who heals him. His fëa will fly from us.

His thoughts flew. Could he believe that Angmar was telling the truth? Surely the servants of Sauron the Deceiver would have no compunction to lie if it meant they achieved their ends? But he could well believe that any spirit would fly from the Ringwraiths.

A wretched gasp from Elladan forced him then; what choice did he have in all truth? If he did not acquiesce, Elladan was doomed to become a wraith for Elrohir could never defeat the Nazgûl and return to Imladris in time. And if he did acquiesce, at least Elrohir would suffer the same fate as his beloved twin and they would still be one…At least if he gave in to Angmar there was a chance, perhaps the slightest hope that Angmar would keep his word. What choice did he have?

Slowly he lowered Aícanaro, felt the sword’s hiss of displeasure as the tip touched the ground and Aícanaro’s bright fury intensified. He felt the hilt burn along the palm of his hand. It did not matter, for only Elladan mattered now and he sheathed the dark blade. 

Angmar stretched out his hand in avarice and greed.

Kneel then and I will touch your soul, your fierce bright soul.

‘Elrohir! Do not! I beg you, leave me and fly!’

Elrohir closed his eyes briefly and ignored Elladan’s pleading. He shoved away the horror, the dread that he was choosing to become a wraith, to join with the army of spectres that cringed in the Nazgûl’s shadow. A sudden wind swirled Elrohir’s long black hair about him. The Witch King approached, his thin black shroud shivered and the ragged edges twisted and squirmed like serpents; the long black tendrils writhed towards Elrohir and he felt his gorge rise, they touched him lightly at first, brushed cold smooth skin against his and he shuddered convulsively and thought he would retch. He could not help but think they would wrap their thin smooth coldness about him and envelop him, suffocate him and already he found it hard to breathe. 

Upon the wind there was a sigh that came from the empty hood beneath the iron crown. 

Ah, the brightness of your soul, the delicious unbearable fire of you…so different from your brother.

At the mention of his brother, Elrohir felt all his love and fear for Elladan surge through him and he was no longer afraid for himself; he would sacrifice everything if it meant that Elladan would live, or even have a chance at life. Whatever the cost. One handed he pulled open his tunic above his heart, bared his chest and the mist beaded on his skin. 

‘Come then!’ he cried. ‘Take me and spare my brother.’ 

The air chilled suddenly and the cold lifted the fine hairs on his neck. Angmar was right before him, the empty hood leaning in. A cold hand rested upon the banging pulse in Elrohir’s veins, slid over his skin to cup his throat. Elrohir squeezed his eyes closed, horror shuddered along his nerves and his skin was cold, so cold like all the warmth was leeched from him.

I might ravish you now and take your fire, Angmar whispered and Elrohir felt the skeletal fingers press against his flesh. So warm…I had forgotten the heat of desire…Your lust, your forbidden, violent lust…

Angmar’s touch was a cobweb of darkness that skittered over Elrohir’s thoughts and dreams and memories, rifled through the darkness. 

Why do you think you are so different from your sweet brother? 

With probing, sharp fingers, the Witch King opened memory and violated it, plunging into the secret thoughts and desires, pulling out shameful secrets and guilty pleasures and holding each one up to the darkness, deepening the shame, casting shadows where there should be none.

You are one of us. You have always been one of us. We merely waited for you…And now…

Then Angmar found the deepest secret, the guilt.

In the caves again, the heat and darkness pressing close, beneath his skin. The stench. Orc. Dried blood and bones, putrefying meat. And excrement and urine. It was horrific. He eased himself through the darkness that seemed thicker than air, like viscous liquid, like thick water- oil perhaps… he pushed away the horror of it and instead focused on sounds … a muffled sob? Further down the tunnel, he could trace the sounds to where a glow of torchlight flickered… a muffled cry again and as he eased himself closer, heavy breaths…grunts. He stopped, listened, stretched out his senses… and realised what he heard, for he was no innocent himself. And then the red hot anger and fury blazed through his blood and he could not stop…Black blood spattered over the walls and Aícanaro plunged into ruined flesh…

The shadow of Angmar paused and unfolded the memory with depraved pleasure. Slowly he probed more deeply and Elrohir hung frozen in his grasp and the pulse in his neck was slowly squeezed, and slowed and slowed…

No. Angmar cast a shadow over the memory. That is not how it happened. You did not blaze like a fury and fling open the door. The night you crept into the Orc den, you were already aroused by battle, already felt that excitement akin to desire. Other warriors feel it too; Glorfindel has warned you of it, told you of the lust that swells you and sometimes leads Men to atrocities. 

Angmar showed him erotic images, but they were of violence and rape. He let the images sink into Elrohir’s memory, planted them there to grow stronger.

You understand well that lust. 

Angmar leaned in close to Elrohir and whispered so his cold breath stroked Elrohir’s cheek and he was frozen, cold seeped into his flesh, slowed his blood. …

You had felt it before Glorfindel ever spoke of it, already experienced it, fought its hold upon you. And you already knew the dark lust that raises its head like a predator when you crept silently down the tunnel and paused to listen. 

Angmar slid a spell between the edges of Elrohir’s guilt and shame and it was just enough to ripple across the memory and distort it. Elrohir cried out again the suffocating hold that had him swollen and desperate for air and then Angmar opened up the memory again and let the perversion slide in, coil about Elrohir’s desperate guilt that he had not found his mother in time; Angmar made it something else, something in which Elrohir had found a shameful pleasure in another time in another place… So it became this:

A stifled scream tore through the dark as he eased open the heavy barred door. Inside the cell an Orc stood pushing up against a pile of rags and filthy matted hair, a shapeless huddle that whimpered and cried. The dark lust within him raised its head to listen. A pale breast showed through the torn fabric already filthy and stained, ripped into shreds, and he stared, though his sword glinted in the torchlight. The Orc was panting, thrusting itself into the shapeless form which moved and protesting hands clawed at the Orc. Elrohir held his sword before him and paused…

Yes. This was it. He had paused, watching the Orc thrusting, its mouth wide in lust and the whimpering form hanging loosely from its grip, pushed against the stone wall. Elrohir had felt a horrible kinship, the power of violence, he felt himself swell and the erotic charge. He had almost groaned when the Orc suddenly stiffened as it released and at that moment, Elrohir moved as if released from his own spell. The Orc turned suddenly and seeing the Elf standing there, roared with rage. It dropped the ragged form and turned, dragging its iron sword from the sheath as it turned to confront the intruder. Elrohir had simply, elatedly, lustfully slashed the Orc’s throat so its blood burbled erotically from the gash and it fell to the ground. He wanted to sink his hands into its gorged flesh, to tear its heart from its chest and thrust into it himself. The stink of its release filled the cell, horrible and familiar.

The ragged shape that stank of blood and semen now crawled away from him, mumbling and weeping. Still sunk in the bloodlust and violence of killing, he had grasped its hair, thinking at first it was some female Orc or some creature corrupted by darkness and Shadow for it seemed shrivelled and wizened. His lust was hard and swollen, engorged and he threw the shape down and scrambled at the ties to his breeches. And then…a long pale hand had scrabbled towards the Orc’s fallen sword, scrambling to hold it and the rough voice whispered brokenly. 

Tangled filthy hair dropped around her face… and her eyes, unfocused and bright with defiance and tears had made him see her. His eyes widened in terror and he had shoved away from her when he realized the full horror of what he discovered.

…Mother... 

He had been about to... No! No! He could not think on that. But still the memories flooded him, for when he had lifted her, she had torn at his face and screamed, struggling and saying vile things to him. She was out of her mind then but it did not matter, for it was true. All true. He was as bad as the Orc that had violated her. Worse! Worse than any Orc …

Air suddenly rushed into his lungs as Angmar released him and Elrohir fell back clutching his bruised throat. His guilt suffocated him more thoroughly than Angmar’s strangling hold; in his depraved lust he had thought to rape his own mother. 

Angmar pushed him down to his knees and he could not resist. He shook, trembled with horror at the recognition as he now believed, of that shocking crime that he had thought to commit against his own mother. Angmar was right; he was as bad as they, full of wickedness and shadow. He should be punished. Had he not secretly sought that for all these years? How much more deserving of life was Elladan who moaned and cried at him to leave. But Elrohir would never leave. He deserved this. Shadows clustered about him, their skull-like faces elongated and drawn, mouths agape and filled with sharp little teeth chittered and whispered around him. He fell back in horror, eyes wide.

Now you see as the world as it is beyond your narrow perception. 

The fine rain misted on his skin, soaked his linen shirt and there was the wetness of mud on his knees through the leather of his breeches. He knelt in the rain, his heart pounding with fear and horror. The warm skin of his bared chest gleamed wetly and he let his head tip back so his long black hair streamed down his back and pooled like ink on the ground behind him.

Rávëyon…. It was a sigh, desire, yearning. How fierce your soul. How it consumes…

The cold armoured hand hovered again over his bruised throat and slid down his skin to press against his chest above his heart. A cold spike thrust into his flesh, not deeply but the pain…He writhed and heard his own voice pleading.

‘It is too intense…Please let this end. I have pledged myself to you.’

Angmar rifled again, even more deeply, through the images and secrets of his heart …and stopped.

Not yet. You have work to do yet.

He did not know what Angmar meant but the Witch King stopped abruptly as if he had said too much, and then he pressed down hard and drove the cold spike into Elrohir’s heart and he cried out. His own cry merged with a stifled scream that tore through the darkness of his dream and he was there, in the nightmare dream of his mother’s torment again: 

Ahead of him, suddenly, was a heavy barred door. Helplessly, knowing already what he would find but driven on by the pain and Angmar’s insistence, he eased it open, stepping into the hot, stinking darkness, blood and shit and sweat. An Orc was thrusting itself against a pile of filthy rags that whimpered as the Orc pounded against it…He knew the blue eyes that stared wildly through the tangle of cornsilk hair 

‘This moment, this memory defines you, pursues you down the long passage of years. But there is more.’ Angmar’s voice penetrated his dream now. 

Elrohir felt the press of ice-cold upon his chest and thought it was a spear of ice for it sank into his skin, deeper and into his flesh so his skin purpled and bruised beneath the Nazgûl’s fingers. Pain like a vice gripped him, wrenched him and he twisted in its clasp.  
It was not a dream but a spell cast now by the Witch King of Angmar, unreal, dreamlike nevertheless. Angmar conjured it from Elrohir’s memories, his guilt and secret desire. His dark lust raised its head to listen, fixed beady eyes into the darkness and hissed…

The fiery light of torches in sconces gleamed on the rocky wall. He found himself moving forwards, silently easing through the oily dark that clung to him, and the shadows with their horrid skulls and sharp little teeth slipped along in his wake. Ahead of him the torchlight lit up a body that hung, stretched to its limits, from shackles, from chains that disappeared into the dark. Long, pale gold hair streamed down around it…Ah! Eru…He almost cried out for the lust that flared and ignited in his loins and the shame that blazed in his heart…But this flat-bellied, lean hipped figure was absolutely male and around the pale skin that was already marked with blood, was a shape painted onto the skin, a wild whirl of colour and abstract… The sound of a lash against flesh cracked and a muffled cry made him jerk and pulse with desire.

‘Your yôzaira.’

Angmar sounded utterly satisfied and pulled Elrohir’s head back by his hair and he felt himself fill, swollen-hard and needy. Oh Eru, how he wanted that sleek, lean body. The image was branded into his core now, sent sparks of lust fizzing along his nerves. A hand cupped his throat, pressed against the pulse that banged in his veins. 

I have forgotten the beat of blood in my veins

The thought grazed against his own pounding lust, matched it, mirrored his own desire. 

My lord will give you all that you desire if you but bring him the One. You know where it is. We can see it in you. Tell us where and I will release you to the Shadow. You will have dominion. You will make your brother whole. When my lord has the One, you will have your yôzaira.’

Elrohir gasped and twisted in the spike of pleasure and pain and opened his mouth to shout his defiance, but his dark lust uncurled and hissed. 

Angmar leaned in closer and closer, so the air was very cold and burned in his throat. What say you, Rávëyon?

‘Yes. I say yes.’ 

He heard Elladan’s weak voice cry out but the shadows suddenly swarmed over him, their little sharp teeth gnashing and snapping at him, his arms and feet and hands and face yet they did not bite though they were as hungry, starved as the Nazgûl and how they wanted his dense flesh and rich blood. He cried out and raised his hands to ward them off but Angmar held him fast and he despaired.

‘Elladan,’ he whispered because he wanted to keep his brother’s brightness in his mind as he was sacrificed, and to force that other image from his mind of the lean, slim body that stretched beneath his hand, painted in ancient inks and blood. He forced that image away and wanted it at the same time. He could not bear to speak the name of the one he desired most. He thought he saw a silver-black sea and he stood thigh deep as it lapped about his thighs, and behind him on a washed flat beach where the light was silver, a strange elf in green and brown was running and calling him…

Too late, he thought and was overwhelmed with sadness. Too late for me.

I am dying, he told himself and then, No. I will become a wraith…Will that be forever?

There was almost compassion in Angmar’s voice, understanding of what was about to be lost. It was a dreadful bargain. Forever. A wraith. Yes.

There was a moment of silence, stillness and Elrohir hung from Angmar’s grasp, head tipped back and long hair streaming behind him…In the strange magic of Phellanthir, he felt his memory mesh with Angmar’s, and suddenly he knew how disturbed Phellanthir disturbed even the Witch King himself, even despite its bloody past.

In Angmar’s almost-emptied and fragmented mind, there were memories almost forgotten, strange images of a far, far away palace, cool and shaded from the intense heat of midday. Sunlight dappled the water in stone fountains and in deep pools in the green and shaded gardens…There came a tall and beautiful man in starry robes of midnight silk, holding an astrolabe; light poured from it, threw out a stream of white stars that moved slowly, like Time itself…My Lord, he kneels on one knee and bows… A ring is placed on his finger like a betrothal, a marriage…Suddenly he sees the world differently…sees all that is hidden, all that is secret…sees men’s souls…as heat and light and where there are shadows he can use, and thoughts that are hidden…

There is another figure in a different place, crimson-red robes and hot sand, hot skies; Khamûl the Red, stained in slaughter and blood. He is useful to us…a ring too on his hand, and then another and another and another until there are Nine…Together we are Nine. Brethren…Our name is Fear, we are dread…We ride…We are Úlairi, the greatest weapon is fear…We feed upon souls, devour them…But oh, the hunger! Starving we are and here is a bright, bright soul…

Cold pricked Elrohir’s chest, speared down his nerves into his chest, his heart; memories shifted and moved, distorted and he knew now, he was becoming as they. He made himself still for he was a willing sacrifice. As if far away, he heard Elladan cry out and could do nothing, would do nothing for all of this was to save Elladan…

Heca! 

A sudden cry came from over the flat marshes. Like a bell it rang out, clear, like a light shining into dark places,

Hehta maicalda imnë ettul tulin námië! 

Elrohir heard the voice and slowly, painfully turned his head towards the light. He squinted his eyes narrowly open for the pain was very great and Angmar drove the spike of ice pain deeper into him so he teetered on the edge of consciousness. 

Heca! Nó Ólorin, núro Muinanaró! Hecá!

A globe of light appeared over the flat silver water of the marshes. It was bright as a comet and approached as fast. Light flashed over the Witch King’s empty hood but for a moment, fleetingly, there seemed to be a face caught in the light, and Elrohir glimpsed the Man that Angmar had once been…A strong face, deep set eyes, a bewildered look that was fleeting…Gone. The empty hood turned its head away the light that hurtled towards them like comet and back to Elrohir. The Witch King’s grip around Elrohir’s throat tightened like a vice and Elrohir’s vision blurred, tiny stars exploded and he struggled weakly.

So you seek rescue. Then let your brother perish. You will still join us. It is done.

Abruptly releasing him, Angmar shoved Elrohir away; he fell back like he had been struck. 

Do not think we are done with you, Rávëyon.

Angmar slid back over the wet mud that shone now with the light that was coming. He spread out his black robe so it bled into the cold air like ink, and darkness surged from it, rolled out in a wave of shadows that yammered and skittered towards the fast approaching globe of light. 

Elrohir had collapsed on his knees in the mud, the rain soaking him. He blinked and wiped his wet hair out of his eyes, dizzy and dislocated. Raising his head, he saw that Elladan still leant against the tree where he had left him, but blue light flew up and around him like sparks from a bonfire and they cooled and drifted. Elrohir staggered to his feet and threw himself beside his brother, plugging his hands over the small wound that bled light.

‘No! Don’t leave me! I was saving you!’ he cried and felt the rain on his face and hands. He poured his own crimson healing into the wound, shoved his cloak over it to staunch it and it slowed, slowed but it was not enough and little sparks and threads of light seeped past his hands and drifted into the air, glowing like cinders, and then cooling, dying. Elladan moaned and tossed his head from side to side, his breath squeezed out of him in horrid gasps. Light flashed over them and in despair, Elrohir raised his head to look out over the marshes.

A wave of darkness rolled from the Nazgûl, gathered and surged towards the approaching globe of light which glowed brighter and brighter as it sped across the flat marshland. Thin wailing screams pierced the cold air and Elrohir could see the outline of the Nazgûl as they rushed towards the light, ancient swords held high before them. Suddenly the dark wave hit the globe of light, and broke upon it like it was a rock. There was no sound, instead a silence that seemed hang for a moment in the air, and then … it detonated, a muffled explosion. The marshes were lit up in a flash of light so intense Elrohir had to cover his eyes. When he glanced up, squeezing his eyes half closed against the intensity, a dome of light surrounded a glorious figure battling the black shades of the two Nazgûl. A huge winged reptile hovered over them all, snapping at the dome as if it were tangible, clawing with its taloned feet. It was the same species as the great lizard he and Elladan had slain before they went into the Tower and he knew that this was the Nazgûls’ steed. 

There was a second muffled explosion and he thought he had been deafened. Blazing light pushed back the roil of darkness and shone upon the faces of the devoured so they fell back, clamouring into the folds of the Witch King’s tattered black shroud. For a moment, Elrohir could see the Nazgûl poised, broadswords raised and the black robes writhing and shifting in the painful brightness. And then quite abruptly, first Angmar and then Khamûl turned and faded into the grey twilight and marshes. The white light hung for a moment in the air, a beacon in the dark, and Elrohir could see within was a man, his long hair lifted by a wind and his robes shone like the light itself. He was fair and fell beyond any that Elrohir had seen and he thought the Valar themselves must have come, or perhaps Finrod returned to these lands as had Glorfindel. 

Beyond the mist came a thin wailing and a thump of huge wings beating the air. Thin screaming marked the passing of the Nazgûl and Elrohir felt it sheer against his mind, the threat hung in the air.

Do not think we are done with you, Rávëyon

He did not care. He was on his knees beside Elladan, clasping him to his chest and he lifted his head to call to the Valar or the Returned, whoever it might be, but he saw only Gandalf, leaning heavily on his staff and breathing hard, a residue of glorious light glimmered in his hair and his eyes.

The Wizard shifted and leaned upon his staff, he seemed to shake himself and bowed his head slightly. When he raised his eyes they were steely, piercing blue and hard. Elrohir stared for he had never seen Gandalf like this before though he knew the Wizard had Power indeed.

‘What were you about, Elrondion, to think you could take on the Nazgûl? Hm?’ He moved with quick and surprising speed towards where Elrohir knelt cradling Elladan in his arms. Gandalf glanced down at Elrohir’s white, anxious face. ‘What did you think would happen, eh? That the Witch King of Angmar would take you and heal him?’ 

Elrohir started and his eyes gave Gandalf all the confirmation he needed. ‘I see,’ said the Wizard and his tone suggested he thought Elrohir a fool.

‘I had no choice,’ Elrohir said bristling. How could Gandalf understand? He had arrived only moments ago and before it had all been so desperate. ‘I thought Elladan lost.’ He threw a furious look at Gandalf, defiant, bitter. ‘There was no other way!’

Suddenly his arm was seized in a grip as strong as the Nazgûl and he was forced to look into Gandalf’s eyes. Ancient, old beyond measure, eyes that had seen the birth of Ages, seen the firmament where Eru dwelt, had seen the birth and death of the Trees…had seen so much. Elrohir was caught like a beetle on a pin and he squirmed under the intensity the gaze. ‘Did you think to strike a bargain with Sauron?’ said Gandalf softly and there was a threat deep in his voice. ‘What is it that you have done?’

Elrohir pulled out of the Wizard’s grip. He could not bear the scrutiny of those piercing blue eyes that stripped him to the bone, and instead he looked down at his brother. Elladan’s skin was too pale, almost grey. It was only then that Elrohir realised it had stopped raining and it was sweat on his brother’s face, not rain. 

‘I did what I had to,’ he snapped. ‘Now heal him if you can and waste no more words on me. If not, begone, for you are no use to me.’

‘Oh? You think I am no use to you, Elrohir Elrondion?’ Gandalf lifted a bushy eyebrow and fixed him in his piercing gaze. ‘I think you will find that I have given you a way that does not require you to become a wraith! Take it.’ Gandalf’s voice was clipped, impatient. He struggled to his feet, leaning heavily on his staff as if he were an old Man and not the glorious figure Elrohir had witnessed. 

‘Neither you nor I can heal him of this wound.’ The Wizard shook his head, mouth thin with anger. ‘It is made with a blade of Morgoth. Only your father, or perhaps Galadriel can cure him. But I can stem the tide, bring him some measure of peace.’ Then he leaned over Elladan again and pressed his hand against the wound. He murmured something under his breath and Elrohir felt a sigh, a softness brush over his awareness and Elladan stirred. His head dropped sideways so it rested now against Elrohir’s chest and a look of peace settled over him. 

‘Think on what has happened here, Elrohir Elrondion.’ Gandalf was looking down at him and his face was troubled. ‘Take him home, to your father. He has the greatest healing in all the world. And he should look at you as well.’ Gandalf’s hand suddenly caught Elrohir’s chin and forced him to look upwards. Gandalf’s thumb brushed a mark on Elrohir’s throat, a bruise that was the mark of Angmar’s fingers and Elrohir jerked his head back, out of Gandalf’s grasp. 

‘There is nothing he can do for me and naught I want from him,’ he bit. Anger swelled in him and a bitter darkness fell over him at that moment.

‘Sauron has marked you well,’ Gandalf muttered as much to himself as Elrohir. ‘Heed me. Tell your father all that has passed. All!’ he said emphatically.

And because his beloved brother’s breath eased and his eyes had closed in sleep, Elrohir ignored Gandalf and instead he hugged Elladan to his breast, feeling the love burst in him. So he did not see the strange compassion and suspicion in Gandalf’s eyes, and he did not know that Angmar had planted the seeds of darkness in the fertile ground of his own guilt and loathing. Instead he simply flooded his sick brother with his own energy and love and wanted so much for Elladan’s healing that he would still have sacrificed himself had Angmar returned and bid him come.

At that moment there was the sound of many voices and hoof beats drummed on the soft earth beyond sight. Elrohir leapt to his feet, Aícanaro in his hand and he held Elladan against him with the other. 

But Gandalf turned with a cry of welcome. ‘Be at ease,’ he said softly. ‘They are friends.’

‘Mae Govannen!’ came a voice that was welcome indeed and a familiar bay horse came into view, its head up and intelligent eyes bright. Its sides heaved and it was sweating for it had been galloping hard. Upon its back was an Elf, tall and strong and long dark hair was wound into one thick long braid in the fashion of Imladris’ commanders. His fair face was stern and he breathed hard as did his horse. It was Faelion, who had ridden often with Elrohir, and behind him trotted two riderless black horses that shook their heads and snorted. They were already saddled and bridled and Elrohir’s heart leapt; Barakhir and Baraghur. They were closely followed by twenty or so well armed Elves of Imladris and one of them led a third black horse that was trailing and lagged behind, pulling on its bridle and snapping at the lead horse. The Elf who was holding its bridle looked harassed and hot. Asfaloth followed easily in their wake.

‘Well met!’ Elrohir cried with relief. ‘Here Faelion! My brother is sore wounded.’ 

Faelion leapt from his own horse and strode towards him. When he saw Elrohir kneeling at Elladan’s side and lifting him, Faelion broke into a jog and there were concerned cries from the other Elves, some of whom leapt down from their own horses. 

‘Lochinar,’ said Faelion called over his shoulder to one of those who rode with them, a healer. ‘Come quickly. Assist Elrohir in this.’ An Elf with a healer’s bright red surcoat beneath his grey cloak quickly began to dismount but Elrohir stopped him.

‘No, there is nothing to be done here. I must depart in all haste for Imladris,’ Elrohir said quickly and he staggered to his feet with Elladan heavy in his arms. Barakhir nosed him affectionately and blew on him as if seeking reassurance that this was indeed Elrohir but Baraghur, Elladan’s horse, pulled away. ‘It is a Morgul wound, my friends,’ he said briefly to both Lochinar and Faelion. ‘None of us can help him.’

There was a shocked murmur and Lochinar rode his horse forwards and reached down to Elladan. ‘Give him to me, Elrohir while you mount yourself. Then we will ride like the wind!’ he declared. He slid his hands beneath Elladan’s arms and hauled him onto his own horse.

‘Come,’ called Faelion and the Elves began to gather themselves to depart.

‘Wait- some of you must stay,’ Elrohir looked round, holding their attention with his command for all had served with him at some time. He had yet to mount and the troop paused, some horses turned in tight little circles, anxious to be off for they sensed the evil of this place and the oily feel in the air lingered yet. ‘Glorfindel and Erestor as still within the Tower although the Nazgûl have gone. There is a great demon in there and you must help them! Gandalf?’ He turned to face the Wizard and avoiding his gaze for he could not bear the scrutiny in those eyes, he lowered his voice until only the Wizard could hear him. ‘There is a Balrog. It comes from another Place… the Dark. Glorfindel says it has come for him.’ 

Gandalf stared at him intently and then said as if Elrohir had said nothing, ’I will delay you no longer, Elrondion but swear to me this; that you will tell your father all that has happened.’ His face softened. ‘Trust him, Elrohir. He has seen much, known much. He loves you and wants to help you.’

But Elrohir could not bear that and he swiftly mounted and reached over for Elladan. His brother was heavy and limp and that hurt Elrohir even more to see the pale sweating face. Elladan’s chest rose and fell more easily however and for that, he was grateful. 

‘Did you heed me at all, Gandalf? I said there is a Balrog,’ he hissed. ‘Glorfindel thinks it has come for him and yet you stand here as though there is nothing!’ He urged Barakhir onwards, almost barging Gandalf so the wizard had to step aside. ‘Faelion,’ Elrohir called as he trotted in amongst the men. ‘Five with me will suffice. Your fastest horses and riders I beg and the rest go to the aid of Glorfindel and Erestor for they battle within.’ He reached Faelion and leaned down, spoke to him in a low voice. ‘It is a demon of fire, Faelion. A Balrog. Glorfindel says it has come for him.’ Elrohir cast a quick contemptuous glance at Gandalf and then added, ‘Go, help our friends for I cannot delay more.’ 

‘A Balrog?’ Faelion was of the third age and had not faced those roaring demons of fire across the plains and he had only heard tales, but Elrohir could see how he steeled himself and loved him for it. His grey eyes were fearless. ‘Do not fear. Glorfindel will not stand alone. Go now, my friend for Elladan needs you and we do not.’

Elrohir clasped Faelion’s arm and then gently pulled his brother back against his chest and held him close. He nudged Barakhir and the black horse turned and made his way between the now gathering Elves and horses. The assembled Elves looked up at him with anxious concern for they had all ridden with the Sons of Thunder and wondered where was their lord, Glorfindel.

Faelion began to point to five swift riders and strong fighters and Elrohir breathed. He knew all of them and each was doughty and fierce. All had ridden with him and knew him well. Several had stayed mounted when they saw the state Elladan was in and they wheeled their horses now to follow Elrohir. But his relief was mixed with his guilt and shame revealed by the Nazgûl, but he could not bear to stop now and his only thought was to return to Imladris and bring Elladan home.

‘Thank you, friends. We ride fast and nothing will stop us.’ And with that, Barakhir, feeling his rider’s urgency, surged forwards and the mud spattered from their hooves as they flew away. 

Niphredil, for he of course was the third horse that had lagged and trailed behind everyone else, whinnied loudly at Elrohir’s departure and pulled at his reins so that Ithrion, who held him, almost lost hold and tugged at the reins desperately and crossly cursed the horse. Niphredil had laid his ears flat back against his skull and almost bared his teeth at Ithrion but he could not pull free. At last he desisted and dropped his head to crop the short winter grass, one ear cocked towards the fading hoof beats of Barakhir and one eye upon the remaining Elves who gathered weapons and cloaks from their horses and prepared to follow Gandalf. Ithrion looked away for a moment, and feeling the slack hold on his reins, the horse suddenly pulled sharply and broke free. With a triumphant whinny he barged through the remaining horses and Elves and flattened into a fast gallop after Barakhir.

 

o0o0o

Heca! Hehta maicalda imnë ettul tulin námië! Heca! Nó Ólorin, núro Muinanaró! Hecá!

Put up your blade foul one for I am judgment. I am Ólorin servant of the Secret Fire. Begone!

 

tbc.


	12. Olorin

Brief summary (sorry- it’s such a long time ago that I posted- just so very very busy at work):

 

In MDLW Legolas and Rhawion were attacked by one of the Nazgul in Phellanthir and Rhawion was killed. Legolas was injured by a poisoned blade during an attack. Hallucinating, Legolas claimed that Rhawion was trapped in the Tower. Erestor and Glorfindel go to investigate. They find that Rhawion was indeed trapped and his fëa kept by the Nazgul which was feeding off it. Rhawion’s fëa sacrifices itself to save Glorfindel.

 

When Erestor and Glorfindel go into the High Hall of Phellanthir they find an artefact made by Celebrimbor thousands of years earlier, but being Fëanorian, it is strange, powerful and functioning. This of course is why the Nazgul was here- guarding it for Sauron’s purposes. It is a Mirror which opens other dimensions. Because of who they are, the Mirror reflects the Dark wherein Glorfindel’s nemesis - the Balrog, Ruinatóro - and Erestor’s lord - Maedhros – are banished, unable to leave. .

 

Angmar and Khamûl have arrived to punish the Nazgul who devoured Rhawion- it has been forbidden by Sauron. Elladan and Elrohir arrive in the nick of time to help but it is the arrival of the Balrog that drives the Nazgul off. During the skirmish, Elladan throws himself between Erestor and a knife thrown by Khamûl- it is a morgul knife and so Elrohir takes Elladan to get him back to Rivendell, for only their father has the power to bring him back. Meanwhile the Balrog is determined to reach Glorfindel and tries to break free of the Mirror, but Maedhros vanquishes it with Erestor’s help; he eases the morgul blade through the Mirror and that is what disrupts* the particles of the Balrog and disperses it. Maedhros is also dispersed in the battle. (*I have used the idea of the notes of each Song as something like the particles of a person, that are disrupted by Morgoth’s biological weapons. But I’m interested in working out how the DNA might have been disrupted or unravelled by morgul blades so that Morgoth had been able to ‘empty’ the body of Elves from that which is their consciousness and twist it into Orcs- that must also have altered their DNA. Anyone interested in a discussion would be really welcome! )

 

In Rivendell, they felt the seismic shock of Rhawion’s elven spirit being destroyed- Elves are bound to Arda as you know, and Gandalf is despatched to help. He arrives spot on time to drive Angmar off from Elrohir and Elladan- although too late to prevent Angmar slipping into Elrohir’s guilty thoughts and corrupting him. Gandalf drives the Nazgul off and sends Elrohir on his way with a few of the Elves he has brought with him. The rest enter Phellanthir to find Glorfindel and Erestor.

 

Note: Sauron was once called Mairon before he became Morgoth’s creature.

 

 

Chapter 12: The Óromardë

 

Gandalf was not listening to the Elves as they talked of what had happened, nor did he much care that Erestor’s grumpy beast had fled after Elrohir. Gandalf leaned on his staff and listened…

 

There was not that trumpeting bellow that heralded a Balrog. The Song here was discordant. He savoured, tasted each note, felt each one, to ascertain what had happened here; there were metallic scrapes in the music, jangling. They pulled at his own place in the Song, jarred him too out of sequence, dragged the chords of him, stretched him until he too was out of kilter, out of tune. He had expected as much in a place where Sauron had committed such violent acts, where Sauron’s own hands had spilt so much blood, as much if not more than he had shed in Ost-in-Edhel.

 

Not for the first time, Gandalf bowed his head and remembered when Sauron had not been, and it was Mairon’s* bright curiosity that had burned: his eager desire for knowledge and Power had stretched the bounds of what they were allowed to know, pushed until breaking the Order of Eru. It had brought him into discord with others of their brotherhood, straining against the rules of the Valar.

 

Mairon had wanted to understand the Universe. This is a prison where so much knowledge is forbidden, where you are not allowed to pursue the Science of the thing. How do we know how they work? he had said.

 

He spoke of the First-Born children of Eru, and it was curiosity about how they were alive, and what life was, that prompted the discussion.

 

Sauron had been able to pursue his knowledge, science as he called it, once he had fled with his Master to Angband. There he had certainly learned what made the Elves work…and put that knowledge to use when he captured Ost-in-Edhel, and imprisoned its Lord.

 

Of course Celebrimbor had been Fëanorian to his core; dazzling brilliance combined with the bloody-minded determination of his House, Gandalf thought grimly. Celebrimbor would have given not one iota of knowledge willing or unwilling once he knew with whom he dealt, the bitter betrayal. Gandalf lowered his eyes; the torture would have been long and bloody. He would have been alive when they hoisted him upon the lance and it would have been done scientifically, calculated to give the most agony. Sauron would have tortured those he found here too, seeking knowledge, wanting their secrets.

 

Gandalf closed his eyes and sighed softly. He had never wanted this. He wished Celebrimbor had listened to those who knew, to Galadriel, to Gil-Galad, to Erestor who had been a confidante and friend ever to the House of Fëanor. But Annatar had completely beguiled Celebrimbor and together they created wonders.

 

‘My lord,’ Faelion said, coming up and standing beside Gandalf. He glanced sideways at Gandalf and said softly so that none other could hear, ‘Elrohir told me what is within.’ He gazed up at the Tower, broken and sharp in the dim light. ‘We should go now.’

 

‘Yes. We should.’ Gandalf pressed his hat onto his head and hurrumphed. There was nothing in the air that suggested a Balrog within, no bellowing battle, and the air did not sizzle and crack. But Glorfindel was there and he would know if it was a Balrog or not, Gandalf thought. ‘Yes. We should go right now.’

 

Without waiting for Faelion to give orders or collect himself, Gandalf strode off along the broken road, picking his way between the cracked slabs of stone. Behind him he could hear Faelion giving orders to two Elves to stand guard over the horses and without looking back, the Wizard cast a quick glamour over the small group remaining so they would be hidden from enemies, from the Nazgûl should they return, for he did not think they would so easily give up the prize that Phellanthir seemed to be.

 

Faelion jogged up behind him and matched his stride easily. He seemed unsurprised at the quick spell Gandalf had cast, nodding his thanks and Gandalf quirked an eyebrow. But, he thought, Faelion had ridden much with the Sons of Elrond and perhaps such a glamour was commonplace amongst them. At the thought of Elrohir, Gandalf was again troubled. When he had arrived to drive off Angmar, there had been the oily slick in the air that was Power, of what Men called magic, and Elrohir had been wild-eyed and guilty enough for him to think that Angmar had done something…or perhaps it was only that he had realised, known something?

 

But that will have to wait, Gandalf thought as he climbed the narrow trail that wound up the rocky cliffside to the ruined tower. For now, Balrog or not, there was something up there of great interest and he was needed.

 

As he climbed the smooth limestone steps that led upwards and into the dimness of the ruined Tower, Gandalf slowed his steps. Here was an intense pressure, like a storm was gathering. In his mouth was the taste of copper, steel. Like blood. He had felt this before.

 

Inside, thin daylight seeped through the fractures in the roof and he looked up to see that ivy had prised itself between the cracks and widened them. Eventually, Gandalf thought, this would all be open once more to the sky and there would be no trace of Elves: it would be as if they had never been.

 

Their hurried footsteps echoed in the vast silence that was Phellanthir. Ahead of them a wide polished staircase disappeared upwards into the gloomy darkness above. Something moved in the darkness ahead of them. He paused, aware of Faelion and his Elves following lightly behind him but he threw out his hand to stop them. They were silent.

 

Then a voice cried out ‘Who goes there?’

 

And Faelion took a step forwards. ‘My lord Glorfindel!’

 

Glorfindel emerged from the darkness, shining sword in hand and his tunic and cloak singed black and the edges burnt. ‘Faelion! Gandalf!’ The names were uttered with intense relief. Glorfindel did not sheath his sword but strode towards them and clasped Faelion by the arm and nodded briefly, appreciatively at the elves gathered behind Faelion. ‘It is well that you are here,’ he said looking most at Gandalf, ‘though I think the danger is past. Tell me you passed Elrohir and that he is well? And Elladan?’

 

‘They have already left for Rivendell my lord. Elladan is gravely injured. Five warriors are with them though and the Nazgûl fled. My lord Gandalf drove them away.’

 

Glorfindel nodded as if he had expected that and then looked back over his shoulder towards the darkness that gaped. ‘Come then. I am glad you are here,’ he repeated to Gandalf. ‘There is something you should see. Faelion, come too but leave your guards here on the steps for I do not think the Nazgûl will abandon this place lightly.’

 

Faelion signaled to his men and they spread out, their faces alert and wary. Glorfindel was already turning to lead them but Gandalf caught his arm. ‘Elrohir said a Balrog is come,’ he murmured.

 

Glorfindel closed his eyes briefly, concern on his face. ‘It has gone,’ he said. ‘Did the men hear?’

 

Gandalf suddenly realised how very very fearful he had been at Elrohir’s news, for relief rushed through him. ‘No. Only Faelion and I heard. How is it a Balrog was here and is not gone? Do you mean killed or simply fled?’

 

‘Come,’ Glorfindel said grimly. ‘There is something you need to see. There is more going on here that just a Balrog. It was not I who vanquished the Balrog, but another from an ancient time.’

 

Astonished, Gandalf stared. Who could he mean? Balrogs were demons of the First Age. Surely Glorfindel could not mean a warrior from that time? There were none left….All had been slain or sailed but a handful who dwelled in Imladris, such as Erestor and Tindómion. Surely he would say if it were Erestor of whom he spoke. There was only one unaccounted for and surely it could not be he?* But Glorfindel had already turned and lead the way, leaping up the steps swiftly and Gandalf hurried after him, holding his robe in one hand. Faelion overtook him on the stairs and Gandalf cursed this heavy flesh and old bones.

 

At the top of the stairs was a long passage and the daylight faded into dimness but Gandalf could see great bronze doors thrown wide open and buckled as if an intense heat had melted them. He paused at the top of the stairs for he could feel that Power rippled across the entrance of the doors, almost tangible. Stepping towards the doors, he narrowed his eyes, letting himself slip from his flesh, muscle and bone, and though his bodily presence kept its shape and form to all who looked, Ólorin slipped from his corporeal case and slowly approached the doors. Like water, the darkness parted before and around him, and lights glimmered like rainbows and then split into the vertical lines of the helyanwë . He felt the resonance of Power, deep Power such as he had never felt this side of the Sea…

 

He peered into the dark and listened…

 

There was silence at first, and then a strange, deep note chimed far off in the darkness. It was a rare, rich chord of indescribable loveliness and Ólorin felt his own spirit tremble in response. It drifted in the empty silence like a ship’s bell. Lost. And the loneliness was overwhelming.

 

It sounded once more, the chord of silver-blue and fire that repeated itself despairingly, as if it called to the other far-flung parts of itself. So sad was that lonely sound that Ólorin found himself moved, for the silences between were like black holes of absence: empty spaces where there had once been great chords in a symphony that was deep, rich with suffering and burned to purity. The pain of their absence was indescribable.

 

This is not Rhawion, he thought. Who is it that haunts the Darkness of Phellanthir? He perceived it was not simple darkness within but something more. He wondered if this was Celebrimbor for it was his city, his curvë. But there was nothing to suggest that Celebrimbor was banished to the Dark…And that led him down another road; Fëanáro?

 

His thoughts were interrupted then; another sound, more strident and angry, a hollow roar that was disembodied, its parts flung as far and as wide as the strange, lost chord

 

There has been a battle, Ólorin thought. This distant, enraged bellow he knew was the Balrog, its rage resonated through the emptiness, as if it remembered how it had been vanquished. This was Ruinátoró, Glorfindel’s nemesis. Shadow and flame. Its bellow drifted further and quieter, dimming in the emptiness of the Void.

 

There all was quiet. The lost note of silver-blue and fire faded and the Balrog’s furious bellow was silent.

 

Ólorin stilled himself, let Narya open and sift the particles and resonances that were deep below the sounds of the world…There was a stillness beneath, somewhere in the Dark. Distant and far. Something that waited. A crushing strength and heavy malice.

 

There was a subtle shift in the Dark, as if Something’s attention gradually came to rest upon a thin patch of grey light in the Dark here where there was no light, like a pool in the shadowed woods, …It slid its attention towards that patch of thin grey light. Grinding metal and steel and old, old, Power. Strong. Not diminished. Not truly vanquished or chained. But waiting…

 

Slowly, with immense care that he did not disturb the air in this place, nor alert the Presence that he, Ólorin, was here, he stepped back and slid into the old Man’s flesh and bone, felt the sinews stretch and the muscle bunch. Silently, leaving barely a ripple, he drew back and closed Narya, pulled her red Power towards him and shielded her from the subtle, shifting attention. It seemed to slip over him and did not catch on his dimmed and flesh-clad spirit, seeking instead perhaps that lost chord of silver-blue and fire. He felt the misery of its dispersal, and the Presence slipped its attention ravenously towards the drifting loveliness of the lost chord.

 

Glorfindel watched Gandalf, and he alone on these shores perhaps knew what had happened.

 

‘There is some sort of Mirror, like Galadriel’s,’ said Glorfindel in a low voice. ‘But it is more dangerous than anything I have ever come across.’ He paused and in the bright blue of his eyes, Gandalf saw something and wondered if it were fear. 

 

This has worried even Glorfindel of the Golden Flower, of Gondolin. Of all the First-born, he alone but for Finrod, has been brought back and Finrod dares not return. Gandalf met Glorfindel’s gaze. Can it be that what is in there is worse than a Balrog?

 

‘I dare not go back in.’ Glorfindel’s hand clasped the hilt of his sword as if it were an old friend. His voice did not tremble but that did not mean he was not afraid. ‘On the other side of the Glass is the Absolute Dark,’ he said quietly and Faelion stared in horror but Gandalf leaned in to listen for this was what he had feared. ‘I brought the Balrog,’ Glorfindel continued. ‘Somehow it knew I was here on this side and it assailed the Glass trying to break free, to reach me.’ He shook his head uncomprehending but Gandalf looked past him and into the gloom within where this Glass was.

 

‘How did you know it?’ he asked softly, knowing already that this Balrog knew Glorfindel, had his identity imprinted now in its own making and unmaking. He assumed Glorfindel knew for the same reason. “How do you know it came for you and did not simply survive the War and flee Eastwards. Perhaps it has just awoken.’

 

‘You think I would not know my own slayer?’ Glorfindel snapped. But immediately he lowered his eyes. ‘Forgive me, old friend,’ he said ruefully. ‘It has…shaken me.’

 

Gandalf reached out and briefly clasped the elf’s shoulder, let warmth seep into his muscle, into his heart but it was fleeting for he had work to attend. He swept his robes over one arm and out of his way, rapped his staff briskly on the ground to brace it and charge the Power in it. ‘Well. It has gone now at least. So you drove it off.’

 

‘No,’ Glorfindel said quickly and a strange expression crossed his face that Gandalf could not read. ‘Maedhros was there too. He fought the Balrog and it was he who defeated it though I do not truly understand how.’

 

‘Maedhros?’

 

It was Faelion’s voice but Gandalf felt his heart sink into his belly. Surely that could not be? Surely Námo did not truly heed that terrible curse? That was the mournful and lonely note of silver-blue and fire that echoed through the dark…his Song dispersed and the chords and notes of it sought each other; the pain of their separation unbearable. And in the Dark also was Morgoth, for he knew now without doubt, that Morgoth was the Presence he had felt.

 

It seemed Faelion too was dismayed. ‘I do not understand! He has been dead for these long, long ages. Surely he cannot have been hiding or …’ Faelion cast a strange and excited look around the dim emptiness as if he expected a seven foot tall flaming redheaded warrior of the First Age to walk out of the darkness, gleaming sword in hand. ‘Where has he been?’ Faelion’s voice sounded breathless and Gandalf guessed that his family had followed Elrond, having once followed Fëanor.

 

Glorfindel sheathed his sword finally and then looked up. He breathed in slowly. His beautiful noble face was filled with sadness and he confirmed Gandalf’s fear. ‘Maedhros is in the Everlasting Dark…. as Námo foretold, as their Oath swore them.’

 

Faelion gasped and quickly he turned his face, covering his eyes with his hand. Gandalf sighed; it was as he thought.

 

In his memory of long ago and far away Tirion was a youth, more fair of face than any other and with flaming hair, red as fire, throwing back his head and laughing carelessly, looking about with his bright silver-grey eyes and lovely sculpted lips curving into a smile. But Nelyafinwë Maitimo Fëanorian had gone; he had faded at the first blood spilt upon the glittering sands of Alqualondë, and slowly Maedhros emerged from the ashes of those white ships that caused such heartache and bitterness.

 

‘My lord, was it only Maedhros who was there?’ Faelion asked. ‘There were no others?’

 

‘We saw only Maedhros,’ Glorfindel replied gently and with compassion and Faelion bowed his head in relief, though Gandalf. ‘His….spirit appeared and battled with that of the Balrog… but each was destroyed by the other. They are both gone.’ Glorfindel said quietly and with regret. ‘I do not know if there are others… Maedhros asked if there were others…’ He paused and looked away from Gandalf for a moment. ‘He seemed alone in there.’

 

Even to Gandalf that seemed a cruel fate, to be alone in the Dark even for one so steeped in blood. To be alone battling against the Black Foe, against Morgoth and all his legions forever? It seemed to Ólorin for a moment that Maedhros was destined to be Morgoth’s most persistent enemy and he wondered if Maedhros served some greater purpose that was beyond even the Valar. There was deep Power within the Hall, Men would call it magic. He had rarely felt such intensity and he wondered if it had indeed been built by Celebrimbor alone or if this too had Sauron's hand in it.

 

Glorfindel seemed to shake himself slightly and glanced back over his shoulder. ‘Erestor is still in there,’ he said softly. ‘I will bring him out and then we must protect this place and prevent Sauron from seizing it. I know not if the Balrog could have escaped the Mirror but the Nazgûl want the device and Sauron will use it to his advantage. I do not want that.’

 

‘No indeed my lord. I will set a guard outside the city if you will it.’ Faelion looked around and his fair face was troubled. ‘Though I would not wish for any of our men to be left here in the Tower. This place has an unwholesome feel to it altogether.’ He nodded towards the buckled and twisted doors. ‘And clearly there is danger within these doors that I do not yet understand. If the Balrog was in there then what else might be?’

 

What else indeed, thought Gandalf and he peered through the gloom into the darkness within and thought he knew now.

 

Faelion shifted slightly and then said, ‘Rhawion died here.’ His voice was full of sorrow.

 

At Rhawion’s name, Glorfindel’s mouth twisted and he turned away quickly to hide his face.

 

‘That is why I am here,’ said Gandalf patiently. He stepped between the two Elves and let peace wash over their troubled souls. ‘I will put warding and keeping spells upon this place so none may enter that I and Elrond do not know it. It will close these doors until I say open and not even the Witch King himself may do otherwise.’ He nodded confidently at the two elves and then swept up his grey robe again and threw it over one arm. ‘Come now, Faelion,’ he said gruffly. ‘We cannot linger here all day. Send your elves to the outside of the city. Do not set up camp for we will depart in haste.’

 

Faelion nodded once and sketched a bow. He left them and they could hear his footsteps tread lightly pattering down the staircase and calling his men together with no small amount of relief.

 

Gandalf turned to Glorfindel. ‘I am sorry to speak of this, old friend, but we must.’ He held Glorfindel’s troubled gaze and then said relentlessly, ‘Elrond and I felt Rhawion’s fëa leave the bounds of Arda. There is nothing left. Did he somehow pass into the Dark?’

 

Glorfindel smoothed a hand over his braids in agitation. ‘One of the Nazgûl,’ he replied. ‘A lesser of them. It had Rhawion’s fëa and was feeding off it. Slowly draining it of…life.’ He shrugged helplessly as if he did not know the right words.

 

Gandalf nodded. He knew the immense power of the Nazgûl, had seen them do the same to Men. They were like the spiders which kept their prey alive while they turned the internal organs to liquid and sucked them dry until there was but a husk left; the Nazgûl did something similar, he thought, to Men’s spirits, the energy that gave them life.

 

‘Erestor and I…’ The warrior bowed his head in shame and misery. ‘We tried to stop it, we could not. Rhawion’s fëa threw itself at the Nazgûl to save my life.’ His shoulders hunched miserably. ‘I am forever in his debt and can do nothing to repay it.’

 

‘Ah,’ Gandalf sighed heavily. This was terrible indeed. The Nazgûl had never before taken an elf’s fëa; it seemed that even Sauron had understood how that would offend Eru beyond what even he would do. And he had done so very very much. He pondered what it meant that one of the Nine had broken his prohibition. Did it mean that Sauron’s power was waning and the Nazgûl waxed?

 

‘Nor can I bring him back,’ he told Glorfindel. ‘Not even if Sauron is defeated do I think he can return. I do not know where he has gone. But,’ he lifted his head, ‘after Sauron is defeated, you and I will return with Elrond and Galadriel and do all we can to find whatever is left. We will not give him up without a fight.’ He smiled kindly and patted Glorfindel on the shoulder. ‘So the best way to make amends is for us to fight Sauron and bring the Wraiths to their own end.’

 

‘And will you do the same for my lord?’ came a voice full of bitter loss.

 

‘Erestor!’ Glorfindel took a step towards his companion and grasped him by the shoulder in concern.

 

Gandalf scrutinised the elf closely; he looked terrible. Haggard. Worn thin almost. He wore his loss like a badge and his amber eyes gleamed dangerously. Erestor was fey and mercurial at the best of times, now he looked wild, mad almost. Gandalf stepped back slightly and allowed Glorfindel to bring Erestor into the dim light.

 

Erestor shrugged off Glorfindel and stood defiantly before Gandalf. ‘You will fight for Rhawion and right glad I am that you do! But you will leave my lord to languish, nay! to suffer torment in there!’ He threw out his hand towards the gaping darkness of the Hall

and took an angry step forwards.

 

Glorfindel put a hand on his chest to stop him. ‘It is not like Mithrandir can wave his staff and just magic him out of there, Narmó,’ Glorfindel explained patiently. ‘You saw for yourself that even the Valarauki could not escape though it strained and pressed against the Glass.’ He sighed and leaned in towards Erestor, his head tilted downwards so that he spoke very softly. ‘Do you think Mithrandir can alone release Maedhros? And do you really think that is possible? He is but a spirit, his body was burned to nothing.’

 

Gandalf could not see Erestor’s face for Glorfindel stood between them and dropped his voice to an even lower murmur and then there was a low inarticulate cry that came from Erestor.

 

Gandalf had to listen hard to hear Erestor’s anguished words. ‘I know, Laurëfindë, but it wrenches me in two,’ Erestor said. ‘If I leave here, I abandon he who took me in and raised me.’

 

‘And if you abandon the other who saved you, can you live with that. Knowing that you…’ Glorfindel’s voice dropped again so Gandalf could not hear his words. Erestor was silent.

 

Glorfindel turned back to Gandalf, his face serious and concerned. ‘Gandalf, I do not know how this has come to be. I do not know how Ruinátoró came to be here. I do not know how Maedhros is here either but it is true that both were here and did battle. Maedhros fought Ruinátoró to stop him from escaping from… wherever they are… into… here.’ He waved his hand to indicate the emptiness of the hall before them. ‘Ruinátoró knew me, knew I was here.’ He paused for a moment and then caught Gandalf in his clear blue gaze that was ancient and wise and had seen so much more than even Gandalf. But his sudden question caught the Wizard by surprise even though the thought had lingered on the edge of his consciousness too.

 

‘Gandalf, if Ruinátoró came for me, what would come for you?’

 

Gandalf looked past the elves and into the gloomy emptiness within and said nothing. There was still a sense of that Something in the hall, beyond the Óromardë… Not diminished. Not truly vanquished or chained. But waiting…He knew what, who was in there, the Everlasting Dark. Who waited for the Ending of the World.

 

Gandalf nodded. 'Yes.' He looked past them both towards the open, empty mouth of the hall. 'I fear to go in there for what might come.’

 

‘We should go.’ Glorfindel lay a hand upon Erestor’s arm ‘We have all seen Morgoth. He is in there.’ He nodded towards the buckled and twisted doors. ‘Unless you, Gandalf, have the Power to keep him leashed, we should go.’

 

Gandalf stroked his beard. He understood now why Sauron had not destroyed it, perhaps even feared to. But why leave it and not take it to Barad-dur? He sighed. Perhaps he would never know. But he stored that little piece away to ponder later. After the war, he thought, when all was done, he would return with the Three and seek to either destroy it or take it over the Sea. He knew that would be what was expected.

 

For now, he had to cast a spell that would protect this place, put a ring about it that would not draw the attention of any Presence within....a girdle of protection almost.

 

He drew away from the elves and their quiet talk washed around, over him so he no longer heard the words but the sounds, and drew into himself so even the voices became indistinct, just notes, just sounds....He breathed in the air, the particles, the shades of light that were so dim that mortals thought of it as darkness, the absence of light, but it was not; it was the same particles but he must change the substance of them so that they thickened, became stronger, heavier, denser....it would be too thick for the dense flesh of men to penetrate....but wraiths? He needed to do more to prevent wraiths….

 

He felt the Power take hold of him. It was often disorientating, and felt out of control like he was swept up by the wind, but he had learned to let Narya take him. He felt the heat of the metal skim his awareness and perceived how Celebrimbor had woven the fabric of metal like it was silk, so much more easily, skillfully that Gandalf could possibly do himself and he wondered that a mere elf had had such knowledge and power that he could bend the Song to his will...Narya surged white light as if recognising the touch of her maker and a bolt of light reached out, stretched like fingers, hands that almost cradled the great doors, wove something impenetrable about them and Gandalf knew that Narya had already done this, knew the pattern of the work, had done it before and so knew how to do it again...but something was missing, some extra knowledge she did not have and he knew he needed Vilya, Nenya. But he and Narya alone would have to suffice for this.

 

Even so, Narya knew intrinsically how this needed to be done.... some of the particles she wove together into an invisible veil, and he suffused them with something different, borrowed from his own staff. Narya wove the notes into a shimmering fabric, changing the song of this place and creating a new one, so there was light shimmering across the entrance. Because there was already great magic in the stuff that had made the great doors that were more than simple bronze, Narya showed him how to stretch out his hand and set forth a great force, wrapping fingers of Power about the doors. With effort he brought the energy and particles together once more. He was barely aware of the grinding, clanging that heralded the closing of the doors to the Óromardë, but he strained his thoughts, his power to meld them shut…A clang like a great bell resonated and the air seemed to vibrate. The doors were shut.

 

Ólorin shuddered and let himself slip back again into the old Man's body that was Gandalf, let the senses become physical once again, let his awareness slip into flesh and he felt his fingers, the small bones of his hands, the beat of his heart...Gradually Narya cooled and withdrew back into herself, and the air buzzed and sizzled around him. He shuddered again and blinked, aware that the voices had ceased and attention was focused upon him.

 

'What did you do?'

 

He blinked and came back into his flesh and blood.

 

'Gandalf?'

 

He recognised what he was seeing was a face, an elf, concern.... He blinked and thoughts settled, came back into his flesh and blood. Was Gandalf once more.

 

'I have done as I said.' He was always irascible when he had slipped out of this earthly shell, the drain of magic was exhausting and he needed time to sink back into the world so he had developed this...persona to give him time to let himself settle. But the elf who watched him was knowing and Gandalf knew that he saw beyond the flesh, for Glorfindel too had spent time in the Gardens of Lorien, with Nienna the beloved lady, his queen.

 

'Steady old friend,' said Glorfindel softly and his hand was warm on Gandalf's flesh, anchored him in the present.

 

Gandalf grunted and after a moment, he jammed his hat down on his head. 'We must depart, and in haste,' he said. ‘Let us leave this place, accursed and forlorn it is and should remain empty, a grave for those who died here I fear.' He chanced a look at Erestor who sill gazed at the closed doors with a strange yearning.

 

But Gandalf remembered that when he first stepped onto these strange shores, Erestor had a notorious reputation, as master intelligencer, cut-throat, kinslayer, Fëanorian...lore-master, scholar, poet...warrior. There was always rumour and a little fearful respect. It was said that he scorned the Laws of the Valar, was a heretic. But such was to be expected of one who flaunted his Fëanorian past so blatantly. But his real past he kept close, even to those who knew him well. Except perhaps Glorfindel knew more and of course Elrond for it was Erestor, Glorfindel had told Gandalf, who had brought Elrond and his brother into the care of Cirdan and Gil-Galad, charged it was said, by Maglor and Maedhros to keep them safe. There was more, he knew, for there was a ragged edge of hurt and suffering that surrounded Erestor, a yearning and loss, but he repelled any sympathy with his biting wit and fearsome reputation.

 

He watched from the corner of his eye as Glorfindel gently took charge and steered Erestor away, touched him lightly and guided him down the wide stairs and back into the dim light, for although it was only afternoon, the winter light was already falling and the anxious waiting horses whickered softly.

 

'We will ride a little way,' said Glorfindel. 'It is yet light and we can make some way for a few hours yet.’ He glanced at Erestor’s tight, pale face and though he did not speak it, all knew that Elladan was in danger of his life and now that the terror of Phellanthir was dealt with for now at least, all felt the driving urgency to reach the Valley.

 

They made good way in the two hours before dusk but the night was very clear and the stars pricked out sharply even before the moon rose and when it did, it was bright and cast shadows in the night, so the grass seemed silver and the trees black. They had enough light to continue riding, albeit slowly, but stopped after some hours to rest before starting upon their way again. They did not expect to catch up with Elrohir though they saw easily the signs of their passing for Elrohir had torn like the wind across the wilds, left the muddy riverbank churned and torn by their horses hoofs where they had dashed across the ford without stopping, had galloped across the scrubby wilderness.

 

In the following daylight, they found tracks where Elrohir and his company had stopped briefly and Glorfindel deduced that Elrohir had changed horses for Baraghur's hoof prints were deeper now than Barakhir. And then later on again, Glorfindel saw traces where they had stopped once more and there had been some churned up mud beneath the hooves of a different horse.

 

He smiled wryly for he knew the tracks of every horse in Imladris and clearly Elrohir had tired out both Barakhir and Baraghur with carrying both him and Elladan and tried to swap onto Niphredil, who seemed would at least at first have none of it. He tried to imagine Elrohir with the tall grumpy horse, even mounting it on his own with no further burden would have proved trying but to then have Elladan to hold! He hoped Elrohir had not pursued this idea.

 

Later on in the day the tracks showed he had indeed persevered and there were skittish skids in the mud showing where Niphredil had shied in one place and then cantered back in the wrong direction towards Phellanthir. The tracks changed then and clearly Elrohir had admitted defeat for Barakhir's hoofs sank more deeply after that.

 

 

00000

 

 

Indeed Elrohir had given up on the bad tempered beast as notorious as its master. It had thrown him before he had even taken Elladan into his arms, for it saw a shadow in the bushes ahead and decided it was a warg and taken off with Elrohir until he had wrestled it to a standstill by dragging its head around so it had to stop or fall over. In fact at first he had indeed thought it would fall over. 

 

He had given up then and mounted his own dear Barakhir and told one of the elves to lead Niphredil but as soon as they cantered, Niphredil had jammed his hoofs into the mud and braked so hard he had pulled the elf from his own horse. At that point, in fact, he had taken off both saddle and bridle and even driven it off hoping it would be devoured by wargs. But at that moment it seemed the damned beast had suddenly realised it had gone too far and been a lamb, even softly butting Elrohir when they stopped briefly to drink and rest the horses. But Elrohir had not let them stop for long for Elladan's skin was almost luminous and pale, his eyes fluttering open were white and had rolled back in his head so there was no iris and his breath was a rasping painful gasp like he was drowning. Elrohir could not bear it.

 

'Up,' he shouted and barely waited for the company. He alternated between Barakhir and Baraghur and wished he had made Asfaloth come with them for he could feel how tired were the black horses, their own breath pounding and their hooves faltering at times.

 

At last they crossed the Bruinen and he felt, as he always did, the change in the air, the soft implosion as they crossed the river as if breaking some invisible barrier. Even as they pounded heavily up the road and Imladris came into view, he knew tears were scalding his eyes, Please save him. This time save him, he pleaded silently with his not yet present father. He could not save Celebrián, how could he be trusted to save Elladan when this was so much worse!

 

He barely had time to breathe for suddenly they were clattering into the courtyard and already Elrond was there, reaching up, his face white with fear, pulling Elladan from his other son's arms, and then shouting, ordering, so elves ran, flurries of activity, the sweating, heavily breathing horses were taken off and the company of elves who had ridden with him had gone to seek orders and give the messages that Faelion had given.

 

He did not pause but followed Elrond swiftly into the house. Arwen caught at his arm as he passed but he could not speak and simply looked at her pale, frightened face and followed his father into the light-filled room where they had laid Elladan.

 

Elrond stood with his back to Elrohir.

 

'What happened?'

 

'He was struck, at first I thought it but a knife but Erestor knew it was a morgul blade. It was the slightest of cuts but it has done terrible damage.'

 

'What have you done to repair it?’ The voice of the clinical healer, cool, objectively searching the patient for signs of infection, of discord. But even Elrond could not hide the tremble in his hands as he lifted his son’s eyelids and peered into his blank eyes.

 

Elrohir swallowed. 'Not enough,’ he said coming round to the other side of the bed where Elladan lay so still, so pale and cold. ‘I tried to staunch it but I do not know how. Gandalf came. He did something but he said only you can stop it...Let me help. Tell me what to do.'

 

'No. You cannot. Please. Let me work...I...I am sorry. I need you to go and let me do this.’

 

Elrohir swallowed but his throat was dry: what could he expect? He had spurned his father over and over, had never been that close anyway and it had been Elladan who had bridged the distance between them.

 

And perhaps in some way he bridged it now, for suddenly, as if he sensed his other sons’ tumultuous thoughts, Elrond glanced up briefly and said, ‘Yes. Help me. Your healing has always been strong. You fight for a soul like you would wrest them from the jaws of Námo.’ He laughed softly, once but without humour. A tribute nonetheless. Elrohir grasped it ungrudgingly.

 

‘Tell me what to do.’ He leaned forwards and took his place at his father’s side and did not not see the flash of pain that glanced over Elrond’s face.

 

 

0o0o

 

· The unaccounted for warrior is of course Maglor.

Helyanwë- light bridge/ rainbow – in this case it s what Olorin calls the spectrum although he perceives it as it really is and not the illusion we see.

 

 

tbc


	13. Elrond

Thanks to Anarithilen for her betaing and those who have left kudos or reviewed.

Note: Elrond was fostered for a while by Maedhros and Maglor after the Sack of Sirion-. Elwing turned into a seagull when she cast herself into the sea rather than give up the Silmaril when the Sons of Fëanor came calling. Maglor found Elros and Elrond and they took the children with them. Personally I feel that Maedhros, who searched for the children of Dior, Eluréd and Elurín, and did not find them and always regretted that, did not kill children and therefore probably did not kill women either as it suggests an honour. Because of that I think he would have cared very much for Elrond and Elros. And in my verse he collects abandoned children and fosters them all. As he did Erestor- it feels canonical. Of course he was gradually unravelling by then so perhaps it was Maglor who did indeed protect Elrond and his twin.

* Note for this chapter: I also think it too incredible that any warrior would have lugged a harp with him when attempting to penetrate Angband- although there are some fabulous stories that are very convincing about this. I prefer to think this is extravagant poetic licence and actually the ‘Song’ of Fingon was actually his own song and that the elves are so attuned to those they love most, he heard Maitimo/Maedhros’s song rather than sing loudly in an area full of orcs.

 

Chapter 13: Elrond

 

Elladan lay cold and still, his face pale as if he had been bled dry. Beside him Elrohir stood, clasping his hand and willing Elladan to hang on, to stay, but he was so cold. Elrohir watched his father work silently, gathering glass bottles and small vials of different liquids. There were others who bustled around them but none of them spoke either, only glancing first at Elrond with concern and then, at times, Elrohir.

Elrond leaned over Elladan and pressed his hands against his son’s still chest, but Elrohir could see it barely rose and fell, the breathing so slight it could not keep his body and soul together surely?

Corrosive poison drove itself between his brother’s fëa and hröa, split the notes of his Song and the calm blue peace that was the very essence of Elladan was purpled, like a bruise and instead of blue the edges were yellow and painful. The notes of his song jarred and clashed and separated, tearing and ripping apart. Instinctively, Elrohir saw how the spell of unmaking was unravelling what made Elladan, separating element from element.

‘This is how he made the Orcs,’ Elrond murmured quietly and Elrohir glanced up at him. ‘This was a morgul blade, was it not?’ He did not wait for Elrohir’s answer. ‘As soon as I saw him I knew. My father told me that Morgoth made these blades as weapons of Unmaking.’ He did not mean Eärendil when he spoke of his father; he never spoke of Eärendil. ‘They were to cut the souls from Elves, leaving their bodies empty. He told me how Morgoth gave their spirits, their souls to the ever-hungry demons of the dark, the Balrogs, the vampires, those corrupted spirits that feed upon the purity and energy of the souls of men and elves, though at the time I did not realise how well he knew this…’ Elrond drew a breath that seemed hard to take and said even more quietly, ‘The Nazgûl have been feeding on the souls of Men in the same way for this Age past.’

Elrohir could not speak when his father said this: he knelt beside the bed and leaned in and pressed his hands and head against his beloved Elladan and willed the infection, the evil to himself but it did not move. 

‘It is my fault,’ he said between clenched teeth. ‘I did not see it. I could have stopped it. I could have got here more quickly.’ He closed his eyes, pressed his forehead more closely against his brother’s arm.

‘Why did you not?’ 

Elrohir sucked in a breath. Though the question was mildly asked it was a bitter knife twisting in his chest. Failed! You failed again! You were too late for your mother, too late for your brother. He could almost hear the accusation in his father’s voice.

‘The Nazgûl’ he said softly without looking up. ‘They were waiting for us. Angmar and Khamûl.’

Elrond glanced over at Elrohir. ‘Both attacked you?’ He looked back down to the gleaming scalpel that he moved delicately against Elladan’s skin. He was carefully sliding it along the wound, slicing away the skin that had been touched by the morgul blade. It was painstaking work, cleaning it of every trace of the blade’s infection. 

Elrohir took a breath and glanced around at the two healers who waited upon Elrond. They had sunk back into the shadows and waited for their lord’s command. 

‘We came upon Glorfindel and Erestor when they were already in the Tower,’ Elrohir said, thinking he would not yet speak of the Balrog, for it would certainly panic the whole Valley should those healers overhear him. ‘The Nazgûl were waiting and attacked us,’ he said instead. ‘That was where Elladan was wounded although I did not know at first. When Erestor realised, he bid me hurry and bring him back here. To you.’ Elrohir found himself defending his own actions. ‘Angmar was waiting and I tried to defend Elladan but…’ 

He swallowed and remembered how he had been on his knees like he was now, before Angmar, how he had pledged himself. But he did not speak of this; how could he? How could he tell his father the impure thoughts and desires that had opened him to the Witch-King? Instead he never took his gaze from Elladan’s white face, the purple bruises under his eyes, livid and stark against the white of his skin; he looked bled. ‘Gandalf came,’ Elrohir continued quietly, and punished himself with honesty about his uselessness before the Nazgûl. ‘It was he that drove off the Nazgûl, for I could not.’

‘Then I am glad for I could not bear to lose either of you.’ Elrond’s voice was as gentle as he could make it but Elrohir could not bear it, could not stand to hear the love in Elrond’s voice, the forgiveness. If only his father knew what a viper he had in his house, Elrohir told himself bitterly. Elrond should cast his deviant son from the Valley and swear that he should never set foot here again!

‘I would have given anything to save Elladan!’ he burst out unable to bear it any longer. He wanted his father to know how he had depraved himself, the depths to which he had sunk, the perversion that wormed its way through him, the corrupt desires; he had wanted to rape his mother. He wanted to humiliate and violate Legolas Thranduillion, one he hated for no other reason than he had spared an Orc great suffering. And Elrohir hated himself above all. ‘I would have sworn myself to Sauron if it had saved him.’ Elrohir’s despair and anger gathered so it roiled in his chest until he thought he would burst.

‘I know.’

Bitterly Elrohir thought that Elrond could have no idea the depths to which his son had sunk, or how low he could sink. ‘How could you possibly know what I could do!’ he snarled in his hurt and fury.

‘Do you think me so cold that I have not done the same when my mother abandoned us? I knelt before Maedhros Fëanorian and begged for my brother’s life.’ It was said so quietly, so mildly that Elrohir thought for a moment he had dreamed it. Elrond’s hands were busy about the wound, the scalpel glinted in the light, a swab washed across the blood, stained bright red. ‘It was not necessary of course,’ he said matter of factly. ‘But everyone thought we were doomed to a dreadful death and Elwing had filled our heads with such nonsense about the fiends that were upon us.’ A light laugh broke from his lips as if he were genuinely amused. 

‘The Fëanorians were hardly the Nazgûl,’ Elrohir bit back.

‘Oh, I believe we thought them the very spawn of Morgoth. Elwing told us how Maedhros the Red Devil had been corrupted in the dens of Angband. He had been maimed and his fëa devoured, replaced by that of a vampire and he had come to feed upon our blood.’ It was said conversationally, as if they merely passed the time of day. ‘It was only later that we heard other stories, and some of them were just as untrue. That nonsense that Lindir sings about Fingon and the Harp*!’ he smiled fondly. ‘Maedhros would have had Lindir’s hide for that.’ Elrohir listened intently, in faint astonishment for Elrond so rarely spoke of those times, of his foster fathers and when songs were sung of the First Age, he left the room. Then Elrond’s voice changed and his hands stilled for a moment. ‘Do you think I would not do anything to save Arwen?’ His voice was so quiet then that none but Elrohir could have heard him. ‘And your mother? I would have gone down on my knees before Morgoth himself if it would have saved her.’

That shocked Elrohir into silence.

He glanced at Elrond’s smooth head bent over his brother; his father’s grey eyes were narrowed now in concentration and his face was still. Vilya glowed on his hand and Elrohir knew his father had activated the Ring and its violet healing light reflected softly on Elladan’s face. For the first time, Elrond had admitted he wished he could save Arwen. And Celebrián, for he never spoke of her either, as if speaking the names of those he had lost would somehow make it real.

Suddenly Elrohir understood; his father had lost so very many over his long life; his parents had forsaken him, then his foster fathers, Gil-Galad had been killed, Celebrían, the countless fosterlings, and now Arwen. Pity moved him.

‘Adar,’ he said softly. For the first time in many, many years, he reached over and brushed his fingers lightly over his father’s knuckles. Elrond’s fingers caught his then and pressed them tenderly.

Elrohir could not look at him but he felt the blaze of love that washed over him, and then channelled itself into Vilya. White Power blazed from the Ring and pierced Elladan so he writhed and they both turned their attention to him then, their moment of shared understanding lost in Elladan’s terrible need.

They wrestled with the infection, if that is what it could be called. Others came in and went, sometimes they would lean in and whisper something, or remove something, or wipe the face of father or son, sometimes one and sometimes the other. 

At one point Elrohir was aware that a quiet, soft spoken woman came in and murmured that Glorfindel and Erestor had returned and wished to see Elladan but Elrond shook his head, not speaking and barely glancing up from their work. 

Elrohir felt his his father sank down, down, deeper into the miasma of the morgul blade’s unmaking… felt and shared his fear that the morgul blade had truly set loose Elladan’s spirit so it wandered and could not return; houseless. 

‘It still resides in him,’ Elrond said and Elrohir started; could his father hear his thoughts as he could sense his? The idea terrified him and he almost pulled away but Elrond said quickly, ‘He is strong, though he needs your strength too, Elrohir. Do not leave! I need your power to force this poison from him, to break the hold of this spell. Let your anger flow, my fiery heart, let it unleash and give me your pain! I will use it.’

Elrohir stared at him. 

For a horrible moment, Elrond met Elrohir’ s gaze and it seemed to Elrohir that his father knew everything: the terrible stench of the Orc dens, the panting, breathless grunts of the Orc, the gurgle of its death and the whimper as his own hand reached down, pulled back the long cornsilk hair and …oh Eru, help me!

Did Elrond know? Had he seen that dreadful secret that Elrohir harboured in his breast, hid from everyone and until recently, even himself? The delicate thread that had connected him with his father snapped and Elrohir felt panicked guilt and furious anger surge in his chest; how dared Elrond look within? How dare Galadriel seek to peer into his soul? And how dare Legolas Thranduillion deprive him of his revenge! 

A charge of power suddenly broke from Vilya. Like white lightning it cracked and struck him, rushed and broke over him like a storm at sea, snatching his own crimson guilt and love. He was rocked on his knees like the earth itself trembled and he was thrown to the floor. He felt the huge force of Vilya like an avalanche, beyond control, filling the chamber with purity and light, stained bloody by Elrohir’s crimson power. It was then that Elrond seized the bloody light that was Vilya like it was a sword and wielded it, forced it to his will, shaped it, sculpted it and plunged it deep into Elladan.

Elladan’s eyes snapped open, like a blind man looking about wildly and not knowing he could not see. He thrashed violently and cried out. Elrohir scrambled to his feet and threw himself over his brother pinning him down. Elladan bucked and thrashed against Elrohir’s hold. Then horribly he opened his mouth wide and shrieked like a wraith, which was more terrifying for the beloved mouth that uttered it.

Elrohir was dimly aware of voices, that Aragorn was there somewhere and perhaps Glorfindel. Another joined them and he thought it was Gandalf. He was aware too that Elrond was shouting something and suddenly a charge of power broke again from Vilya, cracked white lightning, and a tide of power rushed over them all; Elrohir felt it surge and break over him, dragging power from him like a riptide but he clung to his brother like they were shipwrecked. He pressed his hands against Elladan’s, pouring his love, his brilliant ferocity into that turbulent pool of purple and yellow that was Elladan’s fëa, into the darkness that sought to suffocate him, to swallow him up. 

Elrond thrust Vilya again into Elladan’s wound, her bloody white light blistered and burned and dug deep. There was a writhing purple backlash from the morgul spell, a ripple of black spread over the white lightning as it fought back. Exploding darkness suffocated Vilya’s blinding brightness for a moment and then Elrond drew himself up, a lord of Power, his eyes dark with terrible fury as he hurled Vilya again into battle, lashed the wave of darkness that surged around Elladan.

There was a moment when the poison, the morgul unmaking seized Elladan in a terrible vice and he cried out, but his voice was distorted and sounded animalistic, a bestial wail, and Elrohir pressed his hands over his father’s and only then knew for sure that Gandalf too was there.

With Narya and Elrohir joining her, Vilya burst through the darkness and excoriated it, burned it so it seemed to catch fire and the dark became blood-red, crimson…deep… Narya lent Vilya strength, hope…but Elrohir heard a voice whispering somewhere in the darkness of his mind.

There is no hope for one such as you. How will you tell your father that you stood and watched? How will you tell your pure brother? They will not understand your unclean thoughts, your dark lust.

He did not cease his outpouring of love and power though he was exhausted and spent. But he did bow his head in horror and shame; Angmar had claimed him. He had sworn. He was utterly evil. Ridden with guilt and betrayal as his father had never been: though Elrond might well feel guilt over Celebrián, he had certainly never sworn to serve the Dark. How can I be his son? Elrohir thought bitterly. Elrond may well say he would have done anything, but the truth was, he had not. He had the One Ring within these walls, but he had not once entertained a single thought of betrayal. He stayed firmly on the side of what was right.

And yet, I have fallen at the first battle, Elrohir thought in agony. Angmar’s spell insinuated itself more deeply between his guilt and self-loathing, and dug its claws, sank its teeth more deeply....

....The fiery light of torches in sconces gleamed on the rocky wall. He found himself moving forwards, silently easing through the oily dark that clung to him, and the shadows with their horrid skulls and sharp little teeth slipped along in his wake. Ahead of him the torchlight lit up a body that hung, stretched to its limits, from shackles, from chains that disappeared into the dark. Long, pale gold hair streamed down around it…Ah! Eru…He almost cried out for the lust that flared and ignited in his loins and the shame that blazed in his heart…But this flat-bellied, lean hipped figure was absolutely male and around the pale skin that was already marked with blood, a wild whirl of colour and abstract was inked in gold and green… The sound of a lash against flesh cracked and a muffled cry made him jerk and pulse with desire.

‘Your yôzaira.’

A dreadful flare of lust and furious pain charged through him, stiffened him so he wanted…oh Eru, how he wanted…

Suddenly Elrohir felt his father falter; Vilya shimmered and rippled. As if Elrond knew his lust, had sensed his guilt and horror at what he had done.

Guilt flared inside him and he crushed the sorrow and focused his brilliant ferocity on the morgul wound, forcing his own crimson Power alongside Vilya though it felt paltry and sordid beside her noble magnificence; Vilya was healing. He felt her power to knit anew, to create and counter the unmaking and he merely lent her his boundless, swirling energy to direct and use and draw upon. His depraved and unspent lust gave him that surge of power and Vilya responded, flaring her brightness and suddenly the darkness was gone.

Vilya was slowly drawn back and Elrohir felt his own crimson power sink back into his own body, trembling and utterly drained. He realised he was shaking, even though he was still on his knees and there was an arm around his shoulders, keeping him upright; it was one of the healers, but he could not even remember the man’s name right now. He gazed down at Elladan to see how still he was, how blanched, and though he breathed, it was not the breath of one who merely slept and Elrohir thought how he had failed everyone.

He turned his head to see that his father had collapsed and was being eased into a chair, his face drawn and white.

‘Ada!’ he cried, sudden fear leapt through him and he found the strength to push himself to his father’s side and crouched beside him. Elrond turned his head slowly, blinking, and weakly he lifted his hand and rested it upon Elrohir’s head. 

‘Do not weep,’ Elrond said and his voice was so quiet. ‘He is not going to leave us now. I think …I hope…we have done enough. But for now I am simply exhausted my dear. You need to rest too.’

But Elrohir felt then a gentle soothing, as if a hand stroked his head. Vilya. Even now Elrond sought to heal him. He felt his face wet with tears; Vilya delicately wound about his own trembling fëa he supposed, for he was suffused with a violet light that was soothing and cool. He let her smooth over his nerves and sore heart, felt her stroke against his furious sense of loss and a sob broke from him.

‘Hush, my dear,’ Elrond whispered and Elrohir let his head drop against his father’s knee.

Vilya’s violet light dimmed more to a soft lavender and soaked into him. Like a healing balm she soothed him, smoothed over the knot of guilt and loss and it began to unravel…to loosen and untangle….

On his knees, his head buried in his father’s robes, with the familiar scent of athelas and allheal. Vilya smoothed out the tangled threads of his pain and he saw, as if from a distance the darkness of the Orc dens…

....A stifled scream tore through the dark as he eased open the heavy barred door. Inside the cell an Orc stood pushing up against a pile of rags and filthy matted hair, a shapeless huddle that whimpered and cried. A pale breast showed through the torn fabric already filthy and stained, ripped into shreds, and he stared, though his sword glinted in the torchlight. The Orc was panting, thrusting itself into the shapeless form, which moved and protesting hands clawed at the Orc. Elrohir held his sword before him and paused, watching the Orc thrusting, its mouth wide in lust and the whimpering form hanging loosely from its grip, pushed against the stone wall….The Orc turned suddenly and seeing the Elf standing there, roared with rage. It dropped the ragged form and turned, dragging its iron sword from the sheath as it turned to confront the intruder. Elrohir simply, elatedly, lustfully slashed the Orc’s throat so its blood burbled from the gash and it fell to the ground. The stink of its release filled the cell, horrible and familiar.

The ragged shape that stank of blood and semen now crawled away from him, mumbling and weeping. Still sunk in the bloodlust and violence of killing, he had grasped its hair, thinking at first it was some female Orc or some creature corrupted by darkness and Shadow for it seemed shrivelled and wizened. And then…a long pale hand had scrabbled towards the Orc’s fallen sword, scrambling to hold it and the rough voice whispered brokenly. 

Tangled filthy hair dropped around her face… and her eyes, unfocused and bright with defiance and tears had made him see her. His eyes widened in terror when he realized the full horror of what he discovered.....

‘No,’ he cried out suddenly and shoved himself away from his father. He staggered to his feet in horror that Elrond might have glimpsed those bestial, depraved images in his head, his memories. ‘Please…I cannot bear it.’ 

Elrond’s knuckles were white on the arms of his chair and his face full of pain. He reached out to Elrohir, in disgust and hatred, thought Elrohir despairingly, and he threw himself from the room in abject misery and self-hatred.

 

0o0o

 

In the cool shadows of his own room, Elrohir hid. He clasped his hands over his face, praying that Elrond had not seen the shameful images that were in his head, the terrible lust that swept over him, the desire for violence and….He had wanted that before…Haldir had awoken in him desire, and Haldir had drawn unspeakable pleasure from him in a perversion that was against all he had even been taught; not only for his own sex, but a violent lust, a demeaning and thrilling sexual experience that, young and inexperienced as he was, spoiled him forever in his own mind. Until now. Now he thought that Haldir had merely recognised in him the perversion that he was.

A cry broke from his lips and he sprang to his feet, paced about the room in agony. Angmar had known, he thought, had recognised that in him and was drawn to Elrohir because of it. He remembered how the WitchKing had leaned in close and whispered so his cold breath stroked Elrohir’s cheek and he was frozen, cold seeping into his flesh, slowing his blood. …

You have felt the lust that comes from killing, from battle before Glorfindel ever spoke of it, already experienced it, fought its hold upon you. And you already knew the dark lust that raised its head like a predator when you crept silently down the tunnel and paused to listen. 

He threw open the casement so that cold air flooded in, frosted his breath and he stood staring out over the Valley to the Mountains, the Nazgûl’s spell so deeply entwined now in his own memory that he did not even know it was there and thought the images of lust and violence, of rape were his own. He had not noticed that the images released by Vilya were without the violent dark lust that Angmar’s spell had slid between the edges of Elrohir’s guilt and shame. Now it dug its claws into the memory and wrenched it from him, twisting it into a horror that was even worse than he had truly witnessed.

.....The Orc was panting, thrusting itself into the shapeless form which moved and protesting hands clawed at the Orc. Elrohir held his sword before him and paused…He had almost groaned when the Orc suddenly stiffened as it released and the stink of its release filled the cell, horrible and familiar......

Eru help me! he cried but the words died on his lips before he even spoke; how could he ask Eru for help. He was as bad as the Orc that had violated her. Worse! Worse than any Orc …

Angmar was right; he was as bad as they, full of wickedness and shadow. He should be punished. 

Had he not secretly sought that for all these years? Haldir’s perversion had merely recognised what was already in his blood and now his violent desire, his perverted lust had emerged again.

....The sound of a lash against flesh cracked and a muffled cry made him jerk and pulse with desire.

‘Your yôzaira.’.....

Already he was swollen and full of need. It drove all other thoughts from his mind and he sank to his knees beside his bed, hands clasped together and bowed his head, pressed his forehead against the cool linen sheets though his body was on fire.

He had been so young when first he went to Lothlorien. Haldir had seized upon his tenderness and feasted like one of the blood-sucking vampires his father had spoken of. And how was it that Galadriel had not known? How was it that she had not seen? But she had not. She had not see the corruption wreaked upon him or the tears he would not let fall.....

‘I see it in you, the desire for violence.’ Haldir’s finger had trailed over Elrohir’s cheekbone and he stifled the small moan that wanted to burst from him. ‘They will tell you it is a mannish perversion, that Elves are beings of light and there is no shadow upon us…but you, you are not an Elf. You are Peredhel. In your blood is the lust that makes Men kill for greed, to take, rape. And that, with Finwë’s blood that you share with those Kinslayers is a heady mix is it not? How do you control it, sweet child? How do you purge it from your blood?

His fingers brushed Elrohir’s lips, lips that had not kissed anything more than his own hand, his mother’s cheek, but felt afire with sensation. In his groin was a tightening and bulging like nothing he had felt before and he half-closed his eyes as Haldir gave a knowing half-smile.

That had been only the start of the seduction, for it had gone no further than slight touches at first, brushes of the hand against his arm, his thigh, his belly. And then one day, there had been a rope and they were alone and deep in the forest hunting, for it had become expected that Galadriel’s most trusted, most successful March Warden would take her grandson under his care. Elrohir had come upon Haldir emerging dripping wet from the river, naked, his long hair plastered over his head, shoulders, belly and the dark gold of his hair did nothing to hide the lustful erection at his groin. He had not even tried to hide it. Instead he stood face to face with Elrohir who was only just on the brink of age, and sank to his knees, looking up at Elrohir whose surge of desire took him completely by surprise.

‘I am a sinner,’ Haldir had said in a low voice. ‘I have thoughts that pervert the Laws of the Elves, I want to break every custom Pelegodh ever wrote. Help me purge it from my blood.’ He had handed Elrohir the rope that lay coiled on the grass and that Elrohir, in his dazed infatuation had not even noticed. ‘Bind me.’ He turned so his back was to Elrohir, who bent and tied his wrists. ‘Tighter. I need to be punished for my transgressions.’ Elrohir bit his lip and pulled the rope tight enough that he saw the skin redden. ‘Take off your belt.’

‘I…’

‘Take off your belt.’

He did as he was told and his tunic fell loosely about his body, hiding his own bulging desire. He wanted to lie down with Haldir, to stroke his long golden hair, to press his mouth onto the full lips and kiss him. He wanted hands to cup him softly. That was not what Haldir had wanted.

‘Wrap the buckle about your fist. Hit me with the other end…No. Harder.’

He flicked the end lightly, wincing for the quiet slap of the leather against skin.

Suddenly Haldir turned his head and his eyes burned. ‘Hard!’ he barked. ‘Do you wish for me to go into the Dark for desiring you? Punish me!’

And so he had been commanded and he found he could not disobey until his arm ached and there were red welts over Haldir’s back and thighs and he had shamefully, exploded into his own breeches.

‘You see?’ Haldir had said later, tenderly washing the stains from Elrohir’s own thighs, rinsing his breeches the river. ‘You are like me. We must punish each other to purge ourselves of these shameful urges.’

Months then years went by and the perversion continued, worsened. ‘You have ruined me,’ Elrohir had said, hating Haldir for he had been robbed of any sweetness or innocence. He had been corrupted and perverted so he wanted, needed violence.......

He shook his head, disgust like bile in his throat and he wanted to be sick….

......There were the tunnels again, the cloying, stinking dark that clung to him like need. A distant, raw cry from somewhere down there in the darkness…where it stank of urine and shit and blood…And then there was a tangle of hair, so matted and bloody he did not know her…

He hurled himself from his room, hating himself, hating the thoughts that drove him, the lust that he kept so tightly leashed that he dared not love for he knew he would only violate it.

0o0o

In the cold night, he cast his clothes from his body and plunged into the icy water of the Bruinen and only when his body was so cold that it was on the brink of shock did he emerge and clothe himself again. 

He wrenched his lust under control. Crushed his desire and perversion into a fist of hate, revenge, of killing Orcs that made him like this. His hair was wet and he braided it quickly knowing that none would question him. Then he went looking for his captains, wanting news, wanting a patrol, for there was no Elladan to soothe him, gentle and tame him so he could be civil. 

He needed to ride out and destroy everything that was tainted as he. He wanted to impale Orcs and leave them bleeding and in agony, to drench Aícanaro in blood. Striding along the smooth paths over lawns silvered in the moonlight, he overheard a servant girl speak to another that Glorfindel was returned.

He veered sharply from his route and stopped the maid to ask where Glorfindel could be found and though he tried to be gentle and courteous, her eyes round and frightened. She answered shyly and with a small curtsy, which he hated but did not say for the girl would only be more frightened. ‘He is in the Great hall, my lord.’

Only when he heard the chatter and noise did he realise it was evening and the main meal was being served. Had he not been so intent he would have avoided the Hall and its gossipy chatter. He did not enter straight away but stood at the entrance and cast his gaze around the elves who were sitting or standing within. It was fortunate then that he almost immediately saw that Glorfindel was there, his back to Elrohir but the broad shoulders and tall, elegant stature was unmistakable as was the air of deference from all who were around him. Even better, Tindómion too was there, standing at a slight angle to Elrohir but beside him.

But no Erestor.

His breath caught and he strode quickly through the great door and at that moment, both Tindómion and Glorfindel turned to see him. Tindómion stepped towards him, a smile of welcome on his sculpted lips and concern in those silver-grey eyes. Elrohir hurried towards him for Tindómion was his dear friend and perhaps of all others, understood him most. Perhaps even more in the ways that mattered right now, more evan than Elladan.

A Man was looking up at Tindómion, annoyed, as he had been speaking and Tindómion ignored him, which he might well, Elrohir knew. The Dwarf, Gimli Gloinsson was sitting at the table and it was he to whom Glorfindel spoke. Elrohir’s face darkened for Gimli had been complicit in the killing of the Orc and he had not forgiven that. Then Glorfindel moved also and he saw who else was there: Legolas Thranduillion.

Unreasonable, unfair fury seized him but he knew what it was now and knew why the burgeoning lust swelled in his groin. It was his desire for perversion. For violence and punishment. Legolas was everything he needed to fight, to evade and so crush the corruption in his heart, his dark lust.

He saw Legolas turn to see where Glorfindel and Tindómion looked and his long green eyes met Elrohir’s. A thrill went through Elrohir then and an image of long pale-gold hair twisted around his fist, pulling Legolas’ head back so his pulsing throat was exposed…his strong, lithe body stretched in pain…Unbearable lust pumped through Elrohir. The spell twisted and dug; lust, uncontrollable lust pierced him, wrenched his control and he wanted, oh he wanted to shove that lean body against the stone wall, floor, anything and pound him into submission.

He found his fists clenched and knuckles whitened, nails digging into his own flesh, lips pressed tightly and the straining, pulsing of his cock pressing against his breeches. Long green eyes slid away from his, provocative, sensuous, as if Legolas knew and sought Elrohir’s seduction.

.....See how your yôzaira watches. He knows. He wants this too......

No! He would not think it. He would not. Elladan had almost died and all he could do was think of was his lust? Ruthlessly he crushed it, shoved the lecherous images away, pushed them deep into the darkness of his mind for even now, Glorfindel was coming to meet him, and Tindómion was taking him by the elbow. Legolas’ face was tight, closed and he had looked away but the light caught on his wintergrass hair, stroked it to fire and Elrohir’s lust was undiminished.

.....See how your perversion lingers, how you stare at him. He is yours if you but command it. He would come to you with but a glance. Take him. Punish him. He would take it as your right to command. Bring him, bring It and you will have everything......

He hardly heard Glorfindel’s words, hardly felt Tindómion gently steer him away from the bustle. ‘Ah my dear friend, how is Elladan? We were not allowed to come to your side and I feared the worst.’

And suddenly cold air hit him and he felt the rush of wind, clean air fill his lungs. He breathed deeply, feeling light headed and faint suddenly. Tindómion held him and steered him towards a stone wall where he could lean against it and maintain at least a semblance of propriety. He wondered if Tindómion had seen his arousal, if he knew. But the longer tunics that were worn in Imladris had hidden that at least, he hoped. Shame heated his skin, flushed his cheeks and neck and back.

‘Erestor says that Elladan is out of danger now at least,’ Glorfindel was saying and suddenly Elrohir found that he could breathe, he could think. Words came from his mouth as if he had thought about them before speaking. ‘Erestor is returned too then? I feared…’

‘No. All are here. Only Rhawion is lost…’ Glorfindel said and there was a weight of sadness in his voice. ‘I have seen his wife. I will take care that she is provided for of course but…’ 

Elrohir covered his face with his hands; he was deeply affected by Rhawion’s dreadful fate, but he could not help but think how close Elladan had come to the same. He felt suddenly exhausted and overwhelmed.

Glorfindel called to a servant, Berensul, who was hurrying past.

‘Bring warmed wine and something for Elrohir to eat.’ Glorfindel gave the man a smile to soften the imperious command. Elrohir lifted his hand to protest but Glorfindel moved so that he stood close to him. He fixed him with his piercing blue eyes that were so full of kindness and fearless joy even now. ‘You need to eat. And sleep. You cannot do Elladan any good at all if you are not strong enough yourself.’

‘Glorfindel is right as usual,’ Tindómion’s rich voice agreed. 

Elrohir turned his head in resignation at his old friend. ‘It seems you are in cahoots and I cannot gainsay you,’ he conceded. ‘And I am tired but I do not think I will sleep.’

‘Then I will sing you a lullaby,’ Tindómion smiled. He flashed a smile at Glorfindel. ‘Ask Berensul to bring the food to Elrohir’s rooms. I will see he gets there and leave him sleeping like a babe.’

Glorfindel looked down and smoothed his breeches over his thighs. His long hair fell forwards and for a moment his face was hidden. ‘I have to see Elrond, tell him what happened.’ When he looked up, there was an expression of concern and pity on his face but Elrohir was suddenly exhausted. 

‘I have to speak to him also. I have not given him the messages yet from my grandmother…and a warning nonetheless,’ he said thinking he would rather not have to go back and speak to Elrond; the moments of truce had opened a door but his own terrible deeds had slammed it firmly shut. He could not let his father in, could not let him even attempt healing, for to do that would mean Elrond would see what it was that destroyed him: the terrible memory of his mother. And he would never, ever let anyone see that.

 

o0o0o


	14. An Uncertain Sound

Particular thanks and dedication here to Nash, Cheekybeak, Spiced Wine and others who made me think a little more deeply about Elrond, and stories of the First Age, and to Keiliss for making me think about Eregion /Imladris so much more deeply.

Notes  
Coldagnir is Spiced Wine’s magnificent creation, a balrog, and I have borrowed him as complicit in the killing of Fingon in this. Tindómion is also Spiced Wine’s, the son of Maglor. His friends also call him Istelion.  
**In her brilliant story, Magnificat of the Damned, he is offered a ring by Sauron to give to Gil Galad which he refuses and with the help of Glorfindel, destroys.

*Narmó - Narmófinion- Erestor’s Quenyan (Fëanorian) name. He was the one entrusted with Elrond and Elros. He made that promise to Maedhros to keep them safe. 

*The Doors of Night: In Fëanor’s oath, he swore that if he and his sons did not recover the Silmarils, they would go into the Void, the Everlasting Dark, which is where Maedhros was in the last few chapters. Tindómion (Spiced Wine’s OC) is the son of Maglor and although Maglor is not dead, according to canon, none know where he is. 

Finally- sorry but italics don't seem to translate over here so everything that is said by the Ring, or that Elrond thinks, should be italicised but is not here. And I find other punctuation intrusive.

 

Beta: My fabulous Anarithilien. As always, thank you my dear!

Titles from Corinthians 14: For if the trumpet give an uncertain sound, who shall prepare himself to the battle?

 

Chapter 13: An Uncertain Sound.

Elrond stared unseeing at his son’s pale face, as still as alabaster and just as white. He looked as if he had been bled, Elrond thought. Though his clinical brain catalogued the signs of Elladan’s condition (pulse slow but erratic, tongue swollen but not discoloured, skin cold and clammy and his breathing shallow and strained), all his father’s heart could think was that his son still breathed. 

Eru, I beg you, do not take my child.

His fingernails dug into the palms of his hands and he dared not close his eyes for an instant, in case he missed a breath, a last breath…No, he dared not even think it!

I beg you, Lord of All. I will do anything. He fastened his eyes on the barely rising and falling chest. He had told Elrohir he would have fallen on his knees before Morgoth if he thought it would heal Celebrián. It was no different now.

A drift of frost sparkled on the window, glittered in the moonlight that silvered the lawns and gardens of Imladris. Elrond stared at it unseeing, lost in thought.

How many lives would you give that he be spared? 

That question shocked him.

A low groan came from Elladan and Elrond was torn from his reverie and leaned down over him, murmuring softly, stroking his hand over his child’s brow. How many lives would he give? He could not give an honest answer.

There is a way that you need not sacrifice anyone.

He stilled. His hand stopped where it was, pressed against Elladan’s forehead. After all, the Ring was here, beneath his own roof.

There is the power of all Arda locked within this simple gold band. 

He knew that. He knew that Sauron had locked part of his own spirit, the spirit of a Maia, in that ring…as Celebrimbor had with the Three…And still there were secrets about Vilya that even after all this time, Elrond had not yet discovered.

But with Ash Nazg to help you with Vilya, how much more power you would wield? The power to heal Arda? To see into the Dark?

To have wisdom, to know things that were hidden was seductive and he had always leaned towards knowledge. A memory struck him; his foster father lying belly down on the wet ground with his red hair trailing in the mud, oblivious to all but a spider spinning its web. Maedhros had wanted to know how the web was so strong relative to the spider’s size and had been writing mathematical calculations in the wet mud with his finger. He had pulled Elrond down to join him. Elrond found himself smiling at the memory. Athelas suffused the air, and lavender and camomile to soothe Elladan’s troubled spirit, and Elrond breathed it in deeply, letting it soothe him too.

These herbs alone will not bring back your son. 

No. He knew that; it was Vilya that had excoriated the dark fetid poison from Elladan’s body. Vilya, now exhausted and her power flat and expended. Not Elrond alone, not healing alone, but enhanced…He looked down at the dark blue stone of Vilya, smoky and deep, the patterns chased into the gold. How much more could Vilya do?

And Elrohir? How will you bring him back? He has great power as yet unrecognised.

Yes. Elrohir. Elrond knew that he had used his other son mercilessly, drank deeply of his power, but the rawness, the energy of his red swirling power was a complete surprise to his own father. Perhaps he could use Elrohir’s power as well, to supplement his own? How great their power together would be!

You forced him to bend to your will and he did not resist.

Elrond let his head fall back against the chair in which he sat, from which he had not moved since he was helped there by his orderlies. 

Yes, it was true that Elrohir had yielded to his father’s demands, but Elrond knew that was only because it was Elladan lying there at the Door of Mandos. Or the Door of Night, wherever it was that Men went when they died. 

Elrond did not know where Elros had gone after Death. It never stopped hurting. And Arwen had chosen that same path.

Elrond clenched his fists, dug his fingernails into the palms of his hands as if his own suffering might change something, anything. Elladan had not yet made a Choice. Had he died this day, none of them would know if they would one day find him in Valinor, or if they waited in endless futility.

It struck him with new force so sharp he clutched his chest with one hand and the other fell weakly onto his lap. His robe was still damp where Elrohir had knelt beside him and pressed his face into his father’s lap, weeping.

A cry escaped his lips before he could stifle it. His children! Arwen would die, Elladan lay here and Elrohir?…Elrohir was beyond reach as well. In the flood of power that Vilya had milked from Elrohir, Elrond had seen into his son’s heart. He wished he had not. There was such anguish. Guilt tore at Elrohir, gnawed at his fëa to the point where it was distorted, stretched upon a rack and it almost seemed that little pieces broke away and drifted off into the night. And there had been quicksilver glimpses of dim images; blood smeared over pale skin, firelight flickering over a flat belly and lean hips.

Without Elladan, Elrohir will burn, he thought. He will take the Way of Men and follow Arwen; it had always been in Elrond’s thoughts. For a while he had thought that Celebrián’s departure over the Sea would lure Elrohir to the elven path, for they had always been closest. But if anything, he seemed more determined to destruction since she left, more wedded to the path of Men. There were long disappearances when he rode with Men, and they were not always Dunédain. There were dark rumours of wolfsheads, outlaws. His returns were full of silence and brooding. Sometimes he had gone to Lothlorien although Elrond knew not the reason for Elrohir would not be ruled by Galadriel.

You could harness Elrohir’s power to Vilya. Heal Elladan. Understand Elrohir…Cleanse him of all that is impure.

Elrond’s eyes were heavy. He wanted to sleep but tried not to. 

Impure? He wondered what that meant. 

It would be easy to take the Ring. He could see it now on his hand, next to Vilya. A band of simple gold. He could see Elladan restored, his kind face turned towards Elrond, and Elrohir bowing his proud head, his heart pure and clean. Arwen at his side, smiling. All choosing the way of Elves. Safe. Safe…In his Valley. In his power.

In your power. All safe. 

All safe. All of them. How many times had his sons returned to him thus, sick or bleeding or injured? And how many more times? Until one, or both did not return at all.

He did not know if he could bear it.

Perhaps I should sail, he thought. Perhaps I should scoop them all up and head for Mithlond. Arwen would be safe.

The heresy was not new to him and he let himself think it for a moment. But Arwen would not go. He would have to compel her and she would never forgive him. A child does not forgive their parents for making choices that are rightfully theirs. He had never forgiven Maedhros for forcing Maglor to abandon them. Elrond had been dreaming of the past, of them often of late. Had it not been for Narmó’s* quiet care when they heard of Maedhros’ death, Gil-Galad would have cast Elros out to sea for his angry brawling and told them to find whichever family they wanted.

You could find him too, that last one. Lost and wandering.

Elrond stared into space, the light reflecting off glass, off mirrors and glass painted with fabulous creatures and swooping patterns favoured in Imladris. He wondered, for a moment, if the Ring could really find Maglor…Sometimes he thought he heard a drift of Song, but it was only ever a dream. Or he caught a glimpse of a warrior, long hair pulled tightly back in a horsetail as Maglor had favoured, bronze inlaid armour that he still had in spite of all the long defeat. Sharp cheekbones, grey haunted eyes and a mouth that could thin in displeasure or curl in a smile so sweet it took your breath for wanting to please the man. There had been reports, long ago, that a warrior, a ghost from the First Age had been sighted on the Hithaeglir. It sounded like Maglor but Elrond refused to believe he was a ghost.

Why is it the Valar hate your House so, inflict such misery and damage? Every one of your House has been doomed in some way. 

He could not answer Ash Nazg that one, but it made him blink for there was a curiosity in the question that he had not heard before, almost compassion. And he found himself standing suddenly by the door, his hand already on the handle and ready to open it. 

Where was he going? 

He glanced around the room lit by flickering firelight and the warm glow of the lamps. Golden light fell upon Elladan’s still face and he blinked. He had been going to see Frodo Baggins.

And suddenly he came to himself. There was only one reason why he would go to see Frodo.

Begone, he simply said to Ash Nazg and felt the curl of its lip against his thoughts. Begone foulness. You will not succeed with me.

It was silent then. For now. Silent but it had not gone, he could feel it on the edge of his thoughts, it wanted Vilya.It was not the first time the Ring had sought him out and he had allowed it to lead him where he did not wish to go. Each time it grew stronger.

He went and stood by the open window, letting the cold air refresh him. Ash Nazg had left him, for the moment, but he knew it merely cast its attentions elsewhere. Ever since Frodo had arrived the inhabitants of the Valley had become increasingly agitated, scratchy with each other and Elrond had to work hard to keep high the generosity that made Imladris the Last Homely House. He guarded Vilya, kept her fires banked low so she could charge her power again. Stars scattered across the sky, bright and clear and the mountains were etched, darker masses against the darkness of the night. 

He did not know how long he stood there before there was a light tapping on the door, hesitant as if it did not wish to awaken him should he sleep. He guessed it was Erestor for he had been often to ask after Elladan. So he was no longer shocked by his erstwhile guardian and oldest friend’s gaunt appearance as Erestor eased around the edge of the door. He stood in the pool of light that came from the hallway behind him. Wearily, Elrond lifted his eyes to his old friend and mentor.

‘How does he fare?’ Erestor came to stand beside Elladan. Erestor’s long, lustrous hair was pulled back into a severe horsetail and that emphasised the gauntness of his face, cheekbones like knives and his mouth was pressed into a thin line.

Elrond dropped his gaze and fixed upon his son’s closed eyes, the barely moving chest, his pale skin. He could not speak.

‘I will leave if you wish.’ Erestor said in a low, humble voice. And then he burst out in anguish, ‘I do not know how you can bear to have me near him.’

Elrond tutted. ‘I have already heard what happened,’ he said. ‘You have stood between my sons and death many times. As you stood between Elros and me, and danger. You have always protected us.’ He reached out, touched a hand on Erestor’s arm, let Vilya soak him with love but Erestor seemed smaller, like he had shrunk. ‘There is nothing to forgive.’  
Rough spun material prickled against his fingers as he brushed against Erestor’s tunic. ‘Sackcloth?’ he asked, quirking an eyebrow despite himself and he sat upon the edge of Elladan’s bed, so carefully, not daring to disturb his sleeping child. ‘Erestor, this does not become you.’ He fingered the rough cloth and flicked his eyes up to Erestor’s face which was haggard and drawn and his narrow amber eyes were sunken. ‘I do not think it will help Elladan either.’ 

‘Not sackcloth. Just less fine than usual.’ Erestor’s tone was caustic. He shook his head at something only he knew. Anger at himself, thought Elrond wryly. He recognised the harsh lines of anger on his friend’s face; he was punishing himself for some imagined failure.

He considered Erestor thoughtfully. ‘I have only twice before known you like this,’ he observed gently and remembering; once at the end of the First Age at the news of his beloved lord’s suicide, and then at the end of the Last Alliance when they had borne Gil’s poor body back to Mithlond. 

‘Well…’

Elrond took his arm and gently steered him to the chair that Elrond himself had occupied before. Erestor resisted at first but Elrond stroked a finger over Vilya. Just a little of your strength, he asked her and there was a flicker of power. Just enough. 

Erestor sank into the chair, but he leaned forwards so he could still watch Elladan. Through the soft candle light and firelight, Elrond could see that Erestor had beseeched Eru in the same way as he had himself only moments before. Those strange amber eyes were haunted and forsaken, Erestor had no faith. It would have cost him dear to pray.

‘Elrohir has told me what happened,’ Elrond said quielty. ‘And he holds you in no way to blame. So nor do I and nor should you heap this…guilt upon yourself.’ He left it open for there was still much, he knew instinctively, that they had not told him. Perhaps to spare him, he guessed. He was grateful for he could not spare a thought for anything else while Elladan lay so still.

Erestor made a dismissive gesture, irritated with only himself. ’I should have guessed what was happening. I should have stopped him. I should have…’ He shook his head in disgust with himself and rubbed his hand over his eyes.

If only you had not been there, if you had seen what was happening! If Glorfindel had not looked away…If only Elladan had been elsewhere…Elrond wanted to say, but he did not. Instead he drew upon Vilya, let her peace settle upon his tender nerves and watched Elladan take a shallow breath. And another. And each one was a a blessing.

 

0o0o

 

 

Elrohir awoke suddenly, breathing heavily and sweating. He had dreamed.

In this dream he was in a dry place of stone and dust. Ahead of him lay a black horse, its eyes rolled and it panted. It was mortally injured he knew and although it was not his sweet Barakhir, he knew the horse and loved it. Its eyes were fixed upon him and he rose to his feet, sword in hand and approached the poor beast. 

Everything was too slow but he looked above him to see huge serrated wings slicing the wind as they sped towards him, swooping low. It recognised the ugly, blunt-headed creature he had killed at Phellanthir. Its huge talons were outstretched towards to black horse and suddenly Elrohir threw himself forwards onto his knees in the dust and cradled the horse’s head. ‘Hush my friend. It will not have you,’ he murmured in distress and tried to soothe the frightened, mortally crippled horse. His hands stroked its glossy neck and carefully sought the jugular vein. ‘Forgive me,’ he whispered as he cut once, swiftly and deep. It was instant. Blood spurted warm over his hands and the horse’s eyes glazed, still fixed upon him and there was no time then for a hand reached down to him. Elladan.

Elladan!

He swung up onto the grey horse behind his brother and they leaned low over the horse’s neck and galloped. Hard. With the Nazgûl screaming after them

‘Elladan!’

The cry broke from his lips and he could not bear it. He threw the covers from his bed and leapt to his feet. He was sweating but already the dream was fading and though he reached for it, it slipped through his fingers and the only image left was of Elladan leaning down from a horse, catching his hand and pulling Elrohir up behind him, being pursued.

It was ever thus.

How many times had Elladan saved him and been saved in turn? Life without Elladan was unthinkable and for a moment he wondered how Elrond had borne Elros’ Choice, his death.

The long casement windows were wide open where Tindómion had thrown them open the night before, declaring that the room was stuffy, had been left closed up for too long. The cold air laden with snow breezed into his room and the moonlight silvered the lawns below the terrace. He stood and leaned his head against the cold glass, the thin glaze of ice on the glass melted from his touch. 

Let him live, he pleaded to some unseen presence. Let him live and take me instead. I will do anything!

There was silence. The moonlight silvered the lawns and roses, and in the sky above the distant stars glittered coldly.

Take me instead! he repeated earnestly. But there was nothing. He clenched his fists and teeth until they cracked. He knew to whom he spoke. Sauron. Take me instead!

Silence. He thought he did not really expect to be heard for Barad-dûr was far away and Vilya shrouded the Valley in secrecy and silence.

But there was a way he could bring Elladan back. There was something here in the Valley…the Ring.

You are already so tainted. So impure. It is barely a whisper more than you already are and you can save him.

No! he cried to himself. I will not become as you, Angmar. I will not go into the shadow!

Not even for your brother?

He whirled around. On a chair someone had laid clean clothes and without thinking, he pulled on the fine linen shirt and soft breeches, barely noticing, barely thinking and bare-foot, he threw open his own door and took the three strides to Tindómion’s closed door and pounded on it. 

‘Istel!’ he cried and leaned his forehead against the door, one hand on the door jamb. Please be here, he thought desperately, Temptation was too much. He needed to be kept from It.

It was a moment before he heard his friend within.

‘Istelion!’ he cried again in despair.

He was almost aware of quiet voices but did not register it quite until Tindómion opened the door. His long bronze hair was loose and his shirt open, hastily tucked into his breeches. His silver-grey eyes were slightly dazed and the pupils dilated, his lips were slightly swollen but Elrohir barely noticed in his distress. He bowed his head and leaned it against Tindómion’s shoulder.

‘I cannot bear this, Istel. I should have stopped him.’

A strong, comforting arm was thrown around his shoulder and Tindómion leaned his own head against Elrohir’s. ‘I have someone here,’ he murmured in a low voice. Elrohir started and pulled back, suddenly realising why his friend’s shirt was half undone, untucked. An apology on his lips he backed away mortified but Tindómion pulled him close and lowered his voice, speaking into his hair like he was a child. ‘He will understand. Let me ask him to  
leave. He will not mind.’

‘Ah, forgive me, Istel!’ Elrohir cried softly. That it was a man in Tindómion’s rooms was no surprise to Elrohir. Tindómion was unashamed of his preferences, and discrete because he wished to be, not out of respect for Elrond or any other. It was his own business. ‘I did not mean to disturb you. But I do not think I can …’ His voice broke in a sob. ‘He is so still and cold!’

‘Elrohir, stay. I cannot allow you to leave like this. You are too… vulnerable.’ Tindómion’s grey eyes were concerned. ’You know of what I speak,’ he said emphatically, holding Elrohir’s gaze. ‘We will talk in a moment but when I have explained to.’ Tindómion drew Elrohir after him, one hand on his arm so Elrohir could not have pulled away without immense discourtesy to one he knew loved him. 

There was movement in the shadows. An Elf pushed himself away from the wall where he had been leaning, his movements sensuous and languorous. Elrohir had opened his mouth to apologise for the intrusion but no words came. He stared. The Elf was barefoot and his white linen shirt gaped wide, and in the soft lamplight his pale skin gleamed. His shirt had slipped off one shoulder and Elrohir saw the outlandish colour and swirling pat-terns inked on his skin beneath the shirt. Pale gold hair fell loosely and unbound over his broad shoulders and straight down as far as his lean hips. It was Legolas Thranduillion. Barefoot and his long green eyes were dazed with lust. When he saw it was Elrohir he blinked slowly and his mouth, warm and wanton, opened in a gasp.

Elrohir’s heart leapt in his chest and something emerged from the darkness of his thoughts, an image…

Fiery light, torches in sconces gleaming on the rocky wall, lighting up a body hanging, stretched to its limits, from shackles, from chains disappearing into the dark. Long, pale gold hair …Ah! Eru… Lust flared and ignited in his loins and shame blazed in his heart…Flat-bellied, lean hipped. Pale skin already marked with blood, a wild whirl of colour and abstract… The sound of a lash against flesh, a muffled cry and he jerked and pulsed with lust.

‘Your yôzaira.’

He knew his lip curled in disgust at himself, but Legolas saw it and his own mouth pressed thinly in an answering, unspoken challenge. Their eyes met like clashing blades and slid off each other. It made Elrohir want to dominate and subdue! Legolas was here for sex. He could smell it in the air. Desire charged into his belly, churned in his balls and he stiffened. His face flushed and his voice stuck in his throat, he could not speak. I am not this! he railed against himself. But he was. And he knew it.

‘I think I had best leave.’ Legolas was cold and stiff. He was angry, thought Elrohir.  
Tindómion’s arm about Elrohir sagged slightly. He was disappointed, Elrohir recognised. But Tindómion only said, ‘Yes, probably for the best.…’ 

Legolas inclined his head slightly towards him and there was no mistaking the slight curl of anger and arrogance on Legolas’ lips, Elrohir thought. He wanted to wipe that arrogance from the Woodelf’s mouth.

‘Elladan is…’ Tindómion began but Elrohir stopped him.

‘Do not speak of this now, Istel.’ He did not want Legolas Thranduillion, who hated him with such intensity, to see his pain, his vulnerability, but even as he spoke, he could hear the anguish in his own voice and cringed.

But Legolas said nothing at all, he did not even glance at Elrohir. He merely inclined his head at first Tindómion and then Elrohir, but more coldly, and then reached to scoop up his boots which had been thrown carelessly onto the floor. His tunic and shirt fell open again wantonly as he leaned over and Elrohir could see those strange markings inked onto his skin, and those erotic images stirred in his head again: firelight glowing redly on pale skin, inked with sinuous markings, writhing in an ecstatic anguish.

Straight backed and with a cold glance at Elrohir, he stalked past them with not even a look or a touch at Tindómion to show he understood. The door clicked shut behind him and Tindómion smiled regretfully at the closed door.

The swagger in his departure antagonised Elrohir unreasonably and he felt a stirring at the Woodelf’s sheer arrogance, as if Elrohir were a mere inconvenience to his seduction of Tindómion. He felt like reaching out and dragging the Woodelf back, shoving him hard against the wall. But Tindómion’s hand was gentle upon his arm, holding him carefully and the furious lust became indignation on his friend’s behalf.

‘Why do you waste your time with him?’ he demanded, convinced now that Thranduillion merely toyed with Tindómion, used him. 

His friend’s silver-grey eyes widened and he tilted his head slightly, to look at Elrohir better. ‘Come now, Elrohir. You have seen him,’ Tindómion exclaimed. ‘He is exciting and unpredictable. He is an archer of some note, everyone says. And he is fair, and noble. He fought well beside you and he did not abandon Rhawion. I heard that he brought Rhawion’s body from the Tower in spite of the Nazgûl.There is much to commend him and he has much that reminds me of you.’ There was curiosity in his voice and bemusement. ‘I heard how you healed him of the lhach-rhaw. Do you regret that?’ 

Elrohir did not hesitate. ‘Of course not.’

Tindómion did not pause. ‘Then why is he a waste of my time if he was not a waste of yours?’

Elrohir looked away and found his gaze drifted unthinkingly to the door through which Legolas had left. ‘I never regret healing anyone. Even the least of our folk.’

‘And he is the least of our folk?’ Tindómion was amused now and smiling. 

A comfortable chair was set at an angle to the hearth though there was no fire and on a small table set within easy reach of the chair, was a half drunk goblet of white wine and scrolls piled up haphazardly. Some had fallen from the table onto the floor and had un-rolled. Letters, Elrohir could see. They were old and clearly Tindómion had been re-reading them. On some of those letters there was the broken seal of the last High King, Gil-Galad. 

Elrohir suddenly understood how Tindómion had become seduced by an easy encounter with Legolas Thranduillion. 

He turned away discretely to look out of the long casement windows which were thrown open to the ever present low roar of the river. This end of the House was close to the deep gorge of the Bruinen where the river chased itself and poured endlessly over a high waterfall. Here the lawns and roses were always misted. 

In spite of Elrohir’s discretion, Tindómion made no attempt to hide the letters or to tidy them away. Merely he pulled the chair around to face the bed and grabbed the half empty goblet of white wine in one hand and drained it as he threw open a cupboard with his free hand. Rummaging around in the cupboard he drew out a second glass and a half empty bottle of the white wine he favoured. He quickly pulled the cork from the bottle and poured wine into the second glass, pushed it into Elrohir’s hand.

‘You are overwrought,’ he said as if that explained everything, and then sat on the edge of his bed. Pulling his long bronze hair back in one hand, he quickly secured it with a leather thong that had been dropped onto a bedside table upon which were scattered various bits and pieces. A flint, a tinderbox, a wooden comb. ‘Why do you dislike him so?’

Elrohir sipped the wine. It was sweet as Tindómion sometimes liked it, too sweet for Elrohir and he made a face as he drank it. He glanced up at Tindómion’s expectant face and said, ’He is arrogant, wild and promiscuous.’

Tindómion laughed and swung his feet up onto his bed, stretched out his long legs and crossed them at the ankle. Then he put his hand behind his head and looked at Elrohir in amusement. ‘If he is arrogant, then there must be many you dislike in Imladris. Saeldir for one, Erestor, me. You.’ He grinned relentlessly. ‘It is often said that we dislike in others what we dislike in ourselves. And I was rather hoping to find out if the latter were true,’ he added unrepentantly.

Elrohir half closed his eyes for the shock of dark lust that uncoiled in his belly. It raised his head and he could almost see its tongue flicker over its lips at the images that had forced themselves upon him earlier; the taut stretched body, twisting in chains, in anguished ecstasy, erotic charge. 

But chasing that image was another of cornsilk hair and feverish blue eyes staring up, unrecognising, fingers scrabbling at the black orcish blade cast from a dead Orc’s hand. Mother! Horror seized him then and he squeezed closed his eyes, clenched his fists. Bile flooded his mouth and he seized the goblet and gulped it. 

‘He denied me.’ Elrohir said bitterly, crushing the memory. Instead he forced himself to remember the journey with Legolas in the company of Aragorn and Glorfindel. Rhawion had been there too and the memory slewed him with unexpected pain. ‘We slew many orcs along the Bruinen and impaled one as a warning as is our custom,’ he said, remembering. ‘Legolas Thranduillion did not like that it kept him awake and took it upon himself to despatch it.’

Tindómion sobered. ‘That is more serious,’ he admitted. ‘I have heard some of the soldiers speak of it. Amron was telling a small group. He was unsure whether it was a crime or mercy.’ He drank his own wine and savoured it for a moment, his eyes distant. ‘The silvans have a fierce enough reputation themselves. I do not think it is in him to spare orcs…but perhaps it was the cruelty of it he disliked.’ He held up a hand quickly to forestall Elrohir’s outburst. ‘I know as well as anyone that orcs spare none themselves. I know as well as you how they enjoy pain of others, that they take great joy in it.’ His own face was dark as he spoke. ‘I merely seek a reason behind Legolas’ actions.

Elrohir took a deep breath and let the anger leach from him. ‘He abandoned his watch to do so. No one could have shot the Orc from that distance and in the dark.’

‘Difficult I admit. But Amron and Saeldir have seen him shoot. They say he could shoot a bat’s eye in the dark.’

‘I found him with Berensul but two days after he arrived. In the gardens.’

Tindómion turned his face towards Elrohir and raised an eyebrow but he was amused, Elrohir could see. ‘In the gardens? I am sure the whole of Imladris was shocked and outraged. But Berensul is most prolific in his seductions. Anyone new is not safe,’ he said dismissively. ‘And he spies for Erestor so it hardly counts against Legolas. He was new, didn’t know anyone, very far from home and from what I hear from Glorfindel, had some news that he could not have looked forward to giving. And then is forced to do in a council full of the likes of Elrond, Gandalf, Glorfindel, Erestor and the ever cheerful Galdor. It could not have been easy.’

Elrohir considered this. ‘Perhaps then it is because Elladan healed him and yet lies on the brink of death and Legolas has not asked one word of him.’

‘You are not jealous then that he is chosen for the Elves? Your father decided that of all of us dwelling here in imladris, it is Legolas Thranduillion who is the most worthy to accompany the Ringbearer.’ He gave Elrohir a sharp look but Elrohir had fallen back against the chair as if wounded. Legolas would go to Mordor.

Although news of the Ring and the Quest to destroy it had been the sole reason for his and Elladan’s journey to Lorien, his brother’s injury had given him no room to think of any-thing else. He had thought Frodo would not be leaving for weeks yet, until the snows had melted in the high passes but he realised suddenly that it was Yule already and that if they were to leave in secret, they could not wait. Legolas was going with them. He thought he would be pleased the Woodelf would be gone, but he could not find any relief in his heart. Instead a heaviness settled in his belly that he recognised as fear.

Tindómion tilted his head to regard Elrohir curiously. ‘Elrond did not decide until very recently,’ he said. ‘We thought he waited for Glorfindel’s return, or your own. But Power calls to Power, and the Ring tempts us all.’ He reached over to the bottle and poured more wine into his glass. ‘Imagine if it succeeded in luring me. Or you. Or Glorfindel.’ He reached out to pick up the goblet from the small table beside the bed. He took a long draught then set down the goblet. ‘It promised me so much.’ He smiled thinly, his silver-grey eyes hard for a moment. ‘It whispers of my House, of the glory we once had. Promises me the heirlooms of my House; the Three, Galadriel’s mirror, the Palantri….’  
Elrohir was aghast for a moment. The implications of the Ring’s promise to Tindómion meant Elrond’s death; there had been those precious moments of understanding, of truce between Elrohir and his father as they stood watch over Elladan and it had changed things. For now at least.

But this was Tindómion, whom Elrohir had known for most of his life, with whom he had ridden countless times and fought back to back. He had saved Elrohir’s life, Elladan’s and be saved in turn. ‘I would trust you with my life,’ he said firmly.

Tindómion glanced at him and smiled . ‘I told it to deliver me the Silmarils so I could release my House from the Oath.’ He stared up at the ceiling. ‘I thought that would silence it for it speaks to me endlessly of things that cannot be…It tells me of those I would seek…It speaks to me of the Doors of Night.*’

Elrohir looked down into the depths of the golden wine in his goblet. Candlelight deepened its glow. He thought how the Ring had tempted him, how it used what he already was. For Tindómion, there must have been unbearable pain as the Ring unpicked his life, his loss. ’How do you bear it?’ he asked quietly. 

‘I do not know.’ Tindómion rolled onto his side and cradled his head under his bent arm. His silver-grey eyes were fixed upon Elrohir. Tilting his head slightly so the burnished plume of his long hair slid down one shoulder as he considered Elrohir. ‘How do you?’

Elrohir could not look at him. ‘I do not bear it,’ he said harshly. I am already enslaved, he thought. I am already known. My blood is tainted and corrupt. How can I be allowed to stay here? Almost he spoke. How he wanted to tell Tindómion how Angmar had touched him, had reached into him and showed him what he truly was: a man who had stood and watched his mother’s rape, who had been roused. But how could he ever speak of this to Tindómion, a child born of rape himself? How would he accept what Elrohir was, his dark desire, his terrible crime when Tindómion had resisted Annatar?**

He shoved himself to his feet suddenly. ‘I need to be doing something,’ he said. ‘I cannot sit here whilst Elladan is sick, or whilst Orcs ravage our borders. How can Elrond allow it!’ He found himself pacing again, pushing his hands through his hair, turning the ring on his fingers that caught the light in its red glow.

Tindómion did not move but his eyes followed Elrohir’s restless pacing. ‘Do not tell me that you have not heard the Ring. I see in your eyes that you have, ‘ he said relentlessly, ignor-ing Elrohir’s words. ‘What has it promised you?’

Elrohir stopped. He breathed hard. 

‘‘It has promised you Elladan of course,’ Tindómion said at last. He swung his feet to the floor and sat on the edge of the bed, watching as Elrohir turned to him. The heavy plume of Tindómion’s hair pooled on the bed. ‘It has promised you dominion.’ He paused and took a breath. Then he said, ‘Has it told you you can bring back Celebrián, that with the One Ring you can heal her?’ 

Elrohir bowed his head as if for punishment. Less than he deserved.

‘It will want you, Elrohir.’ Tindómion said earnestly. He leaned forwards as he spoke. ‘If it has not already promised you that, it will…And anything else you have ever wanted. Even things you did not know you wanted.’ Tindómion stood now and grasped Elrohir’s shoulder. ‘I know you well.’ He lowered his voice and pulled Elrohir’s head towards him. ‘It will lure you with violence, with the promise of revenge of those who would oppose you. It knows what you desire more than anything.’ He spoke emphatically, each word punctuated. ‘Elrohir, you are too dangerous. Too great a prize!’ He cupped Elrohir’s head and pulled him to rest his forehead against Tindómion’s shoulder. ‘How Sauron wants you! The Ring would invest great energy into luring you to it. I know of what I speak! And I could not bear to see that, my friend.’

Elrohir felt like he had been punched. But it was still less than he deserved. ‘I have heard it,’ he confessed, wanting someone to know, so he could be pulled back from the brink. ‘It knows me. The Nazgûl….’

‘The Nazgûl? Angmar was it not?’ Tindómion straightened and almost as if he noticed for the first time, his gaze strayed to the letters on his desk and the look he gave them was like a caress. ‘Angmar knows what your heart desires the most. It is the gift of his Ring.’ He murmured almost to himself. ‘He offers you the inmost secret of your heart. But beware, Elrohir.’ He suddenly turned his hot gaze back to Elrohir. ‘He will pollute whatever he finds there, send it back to you in some twisted form of its true self so that you recognise it as yours but there are shadows where before there were none. There is darkness in your motive were your heart before was pure. He corrupts your thoughts and twists them into evil. Do not be beguiled by him.’

His fingers lingered over one letter in particular, so it became a caress. ‘I wish I had kept that ring,’ Tindómion said very quietly and Elrohir stared at him. ‘It will not be long before Ash Nazg discovers this although I kept it secret in my heart until now. But I know that I cannot take the Ring to Mordor.’ He looked up and met Elrohir’s astonished gaze with such honesty and courage that Elrohir thought he could indeed tell Tindómion how he was tempted. 

‘I Have to tell someone, Istel,’ he said and even as he began to speak relief flooded over him. ‘Angmar did confront me…’ 

Suddenly there was forked lightning scattered over Imladris and there were heavy, black thunderheads rolling over the Valley. Thunder cracked. And again, like the mountains themselves were breaking, cracking stone. A sudden wind blasted around the Valley and the House itself seemed to shake. Blue lightning flashed in the sky, a bolt directly over them. And another. Red this time. A blue spike of lightning seemed to pierce the sky from the house itself and it seemed to wrestle with the bolts from above. Blue light and red twirled, curled, lit, ignited together and suddenly pulsed. The silver-blue light bled into the air. And suddenly it was quiet….

Elrohir and Tindómion looked at each other in horror.

‘That is no natural storm,’ Tindómion said and Elrohir shook his head.

‘Some weapon of the Enemy. He knows the Ring is here.’

‘He will come.’

0o0o0

 

tbc


	15. Vilya

Note: This where More Dangerous and Glass merge completely. So the first section is from More Dangerous, chapter 30, Vilya but I have changed and added a few things to give it the sense of being part of the Glass story rather than Legolas’ story. Although there is a bit more of Legolas in this bit and a lot more in the next chapter.

Beta: As always, the very wonderful Anarithilien.

Thanks to Spiced Wine for lending me Tindómion.

Chapter 14: Vilya

Elrond trod the sweep of stone steps that led to his chambers, his feet heavy and stone-mortal. He looked down at them, too tired to look anywhere else and too heart-sore to try. 

He thought about Elladan lying still and silent not far away, and though he no longer fought for his life, he was far from well. There was no more Elrond could do now, nor Elrohir. Elrond knew that he had exhausted both himself and Vilya. He needed rest. 

He knew that Glorfindel and Erestor had more to tell him about Phellanthir but it had been enough to see his sweet child lying so still and pale in Elrohir’s arms to drive out all other concerns or questions. He had not left his child’s side until now and though Erestor had sat with him, they had not spoken of what had happened. Only how Elladan had come to put himself between Erestor and a morgul blade. A small voice nagged him that he should seek them out, that there were important matters. But he could not even begin to think about any of those right now. He needed rest. 

Quietly he opened his door and went into his own cool airy chambers. The long casement windows stood open and the cold night air flooded his rooms, a light breeze lifted the gauzy veiled curtains, so they were more like mist than fabric. Huge mirrors lined the walls and moonlight reflected off the glass and pale marble so that even at night the chambers seemed insubstantial, not an interior at all but instead reflected over and over the mountains, forests and the waterfalls that roared and cascaded all around the House until you could not know what was real and what imagined. 

It had been a feat to build. Even Celebrimbor had said it would be difficult, but he never said impossible. He never said that. 

Elrond stared out across the frosted lawns, glittering under the hard moonlight. Below him a figure stood. It looked strange, its shape unnatural. Head too thick and arms too short. Until he realised it was an Elf struggling to pull on his tunic. Suddenly a pale head popped out. The Elf stooped and then hopped on one foot for a moment too and Elrond realised he was pulling on his boots. A glint of moonlight on pale hair was enough then to identify the Elf, for it was not Glorfindel. It was Legolas Thranduillion. 

He watched for a moment, dully thinking of that first time he had seen Legolas. The young Elf was similarly half-dressed then. He wondered what had happened this time. 

Legolas wobbled on one foot and almost fell over and then lifted the other foot to pull on his other boot. Elrond studied the Elf; Legolas now stood properly clothed and still in the moonlight as if considering what next to do. He could not have been drenched as he had been the last time, Elrond thought absently, for his clothes were obviously dry else he would not be putting them on. Slowly it dawned upon him; Legolas must have had a tryst, perhaps had been surprised and fled. Elrond smiled to himself and wondered who the maid was. Perhaps her parents had called her in before it had gone too far, or she had another suitor? He hoped Legolas was not dallying with some girl’s affection for he saw the lightness and ease of the Woodelves and Legolas was certainly not giving his heart away here in Imladris, that much was clear. Should he wish, Elrond could have looked into the hearts of all his folk, but he was not Galadriel. 

Legolas slowly turned and made his way across the silvered lawns and Elrond felt a dreadful sadness in his heart; in less than a week, he thought, he would be sending this youngest son of Thranduil on a journey that could well take him to Mordor, or into battle at the least. Perhaps even the very lands where his grandfather and so many Woodelves had lost their lives for he knew that despite the fact that no oath lay upon him, Legolas would not turn towards Mirkwood once they had crossed the Mountains. None of them would. 

He turned away and sank into a plush, comfortable chair, too tired to undress and climb into his own bed, cold, and empty. It had always felt too small with Celebrián in it, he thought. And then it had filled up with children who wanted the comfort of each other; climbing in with cold feet to place lovingly on their parents’ warm bodies...He shoved that image away. It was too much and he was not strong enough to let the memories come, not with Elladan lying still unconscious so close by. 

Vilya was warm on his hand; she caressed him and he filled his lungs with clean air so he could slow his thoughts, cool his blood, rest. The long casement windows let in the cold mountain air. It smelt of snow and pine. Below, the Bruinen roared and gushed over rocks, ice-cold, melt-water. He merely rested his head against the back of the chair and let the breath leave him for a moment. He emptied himself and though she too was drained, he let Vilya sing... 

One strain at first, like ice forming. Thin, metallic chimes, and then the upward soar of Song and he felt it sweep him upwards in a building crescendo so he no longer felt entirely alone. He wondered where Maglor was and wished he was here, safe in Imladris. He often thought of those lost ones; his beloved foster fathers....One lost somewhere and the other lost in another-where...It was because of them, and because of Elros that he fostered the Heirs of Isildur, over and over. Raised them. And lost them too... 

_ You have lost everyone. Everything.  _

Ah. Ash Nazg again. Everyone was stretched by the constant nagging of the Ring; all felt it, he knew. There was discord in Imladris and he was hard put to hold together the generosity and tolerance of the House. Ash Nazg dug its subtle, insidious fingers between the cracks, found weakness and worked upon them. Indeed he felt it too much. It sought Vilya always, knowing her Power, wanting it, seeking her. Even now, Elrond felt it winding its tendril about Vilya’s purity, shadowing her clarity and light. 

He sent a short prayer to Elbereth, for her strength, her guidance for surely she had the greatest love for Middle Earth and still mourned its loss? It was why Ólorin had been sent, and Glorfindel, was it not? They had not been forgotten, not abandoned. 

_ Are your prayers always answered thus? With emptiness and silence?  _

He ignored the voice and pushed himself to his feet, took one long stride to the table where a tall jug of cold wine stood, and a bowl of ripe fruit from the South. He poured wine into his glass, and stood for a moment. Really he should disrobe and go to bed but he was in that state beyond exhaustion and there was too much going on in his head for sleep. 

_ The Valar have given Middle Earth to me.  _

He stood for a moment and drank slowly, let the acid and fruitiness soak his mouth, and watched the snow clouds gather over the mountain tops. Deliberately ignoring Ash Nazg. 

_ Curunir has already turned.  _

He did not respond, but in his heart he knew now that was true. Saruman’s betrayal was bitter. How could they have not known? How could they have let him betray them? But it hurt more deeply than that, for Elrond had trusted him, had liked him. They had a shared interest in lore, in healing... Saruman had taught him much, his intellect different from the fiery integrity and courage of Mithrandir. Elrond had corresponded, had spent time with Saruman, learning and teaching him alike. 

_ And are you so sure of the Shipwright? Are you so sure of Her?  _ Another cold laugh, a sneer. _Did you think I did not know where are the Three?_

He let Vilya close around him, a silver-blue veil over his thoughts, careful to shut _Him_ out before the truth about the keepers of the Rings was revealed*. He turned back to look at the garden. The stars were bright, white gemstones but dimmed in the stronger light of the Moon which scryed a silver path towards dawn. Legolas had gone and left only a set of light prints across the frosted grass to show where he had ever been. 

_ How long before Ólorin succumbs?  _

_ Mithrandir? Ólorin? He will never succumb.  _ Elrond guarded his thoughts, his surprise. _His great work is to defeat you. And he will._

_ He was always mine.  _

Elrond did not respond to that. Mithrandir was enigmatic, disliked being questioned and sometimes his motives were unclear. But in this, his opposition to Sauron was beyond doubt. 

_ You know there is danger...Shadow and Flame...We have both seen it....  _

It was goading him, he knew and again, he pulled the veils of Vilya about him, shrouding his thoughts from the One Ring. Looking upwards he watched the Mariner sail the great sea of Night and thought, as he had many many times, how silly that anyone would think that truly his father, Eärendil. Elrond had been taught by Maedhros himself, perhaps one of the most learned Elves either here or Aman, and he knew the stars were not beings, knew the firmament was not finite. Although the star might as well be the Silmaril for all the good that did anyone. 

A little wine had spilled onto his robe he noticed but he did not care much. He gulped the wine, feeling the warmth sink into his throat, his chest, his belly, and refilled his glass, took it back to the chair and sank down into it. 

Celebrimbor had understood, he thought. His subtlety and secret craft had been a little like Elrond’s own quest for knowledge, but it was healing that was the subject of Elrond’s quest, not curvë for itself. Theirs had been an easy, interested friendship of sorts, for he did not harass Celebrimbor for secrets, not like Galadriel. 

The Master of Imladris let his fingers stroke the blue stone that was part of Vilya’s secret mechanism. Vilya was not like Nenya, a more cunning mechanism that unlocked Power. But still the words of Ash Nazg about Galadriel circled him; close, too close to the truth. Elrond was not certain of Galadriel. He knew her ambition. Nenya was not as Vilya, did not wish to heal as Vilya did. Nenya wanted Power, knowledge. Nenya wanted curvë, to discover, to invent, to innovate... and for Elrond, that did not always mean progress. 

He sipped the wine and thought about his illustrious, courageous, terrifying mother-in-law. She was dangerous.

Elrond let the half-empty glass dangle between his fingers for a moment. Elrohir had agreed with him that the Ring would tempt her, but would it succeed in seducing her where so many others had failed? 

Through the window, he could see the Misty Mountains where they marched away south. The Mariner arced above him. 

He let his head sink into the back of the chair, wondering what Celebrimbor’s true purpose had been in making these three Great Rings of Power... there was some great secret that he did not understand even yet about Vilya... something that trembled beneath the surface when the Three came together and the air was so charged that sometimes he thought the Rings had a purpose all their own and separate to anything the wielders might intend. 

He thought that perhaps Annatar, Sauron, had known or at least guessed at their true purpose. 

They had arrived too late at Ost-in-Edhel and already the city was razed. Completely. Only broken stones and ruined walls where there had once been a busy and prosperous city. No one escaped who had not already fled. Every single soul who had been connected in some way with the making of the Rings had been slain or taken even though the prize had already vanished for Erestor had brought the Rings to Elrond in secret, at Celebrimbor’s command. And though Imladris’ army had ridden like the wind, it was too late. They had all known that Celebrimbor was as good as dead. 

The wine was sharp on his tongue now, his mouth had grown used to the sweetness and no longer tasted it. But he drank anyway, feeling the burn of it in his throat. He saw in his mind’s eye the scarred and pitted ruins of Ost-in-Edhel,, the gaping wounds that afflicted the land from wars and desolation. Beneath the sea was fair Beleriand, and beyond the Hithaeglir, Rhovanion, the Wilds, and far countries that had never known the Eldar...How could he heal the great wounds of Middle Earth? How could he, alone with Vilya, reach beyond the known West to those hinter tribes of Khand and Harad and even further? 

_ Perhaps not alone...  _

Narya will help, he thought.... 

_ But that will not be enough and if Mairon is defeated, then Ólorin will return with Narya...  _ He found himself thinking: _the Rings do not belong in Aman_. 

He could almost hear Celebrimbor’s voice, defiant, angry that even the suggestion that his Rings, his scrying devices, his fabulous technology should be taken to Aman. ‘ _It belongs here! Celebrimbor had cried, throwing out one hand angrily in a gesture so like Maedhros that Elrond’s breath caught. ‘The Valar would stop me from using it, would try to control it - like they did Fëanor’s.’_

_ Was that true?  _ he wondered. 

A sliver of doubt eased its way across his mind. 

Another gulp of wine. Ah, he was tired. His mind bled dreams, from the past that he did not want now... Elros. Their last meeting. Elros an old Man, bent over, hair white and skin creased. It had shocked Elrond beyond words. But Elros had smiled and lifted a shaky hand to his brother’s smooth cheek in wonder. 

He found himself thinking again of those he loved and had gone beyond him... For once he let himself remember them all, and he wished, oh how he wished he could bring them all home, and he could look his fill upon those he had loved, that he could stretch his hand across the Sea and touch his sweet Celebrián, and heal her of all her hurts, steer the grey ship safely home and hold her once again; that he could unlock the Door of Night and bring Maedhros, shining, gasping, out into the light once more...He took a gulp of wine. Where were they now, those glorious sons of Fëanor? Had Maedhros stopped falling? Had he found Eru? And Maglor...was he even on these shores or had he wandered so far now that he was forever lost? And more than anything, he wished he could turn back Time itself and forbid Arwen her journey to Lorien that had brought Aragorn to her. If only there were a way to stop her from going, to change everything so her heart was not given to Aragorn. Perhaps if he died? 

He stopped, shocked at himself, though in truth it was not the first time he had thought such things. 

And suddenly in that moment, a surge of Power wrestled Vilya from him and he was caught in the upsurge of Air seething and swelling around him. Great chords blasted in his ears for the Song was loud, discordant. It crashed over him. Vilya’s Power shot above him like lightning bolts, huge, spiraling, spinning upwards in a silver-blue tornado of Air as she struggled with a tremendous Power. Ash Nazg, sensing Vilya’s exhaustion, had used her own Power as a conduit, and attacked her. 

A mighty wind rushed around the room, sweeping objects from tables. The glass jug smashed to the floor beside him and his half empty glass hurtled into a mirror and cracked loudly over the surface. Elrond struggled upright and lifted his arms, pouring out his own incipient Power to help Vilya wrestle the malignant Ash Nazg, but it writhed and poured around her, spinning its dark coils tighter and tighter about Vilya so she became one sharp blue spike of Power spiraling, shooting upwards. Elrond gathered himself, his hands filled with light and then he pulled back and shot Power like lightning into the spiral. The wind coiled upwards, tugging at him, his hair streamed in its wake, his feet felt they were no longer anchored to the earth and a terrible voice filled the air... 

_ Ash nazg durbatulûk,  _

An Eye opened, a terrible lidless Eye surrounded by flame. It searched, always searching though it could not yet penetrate Imladris for Vilya still surrounded it, obscured it from His view. But Ash Nazg would open a channel if it could and bring the Eye to penetrate Imladris. Already he felt it burn...His skin was on fire, flames licked along his hands, tore into him like knives but he did not let go of Vilya. 

Vilya’s silver-blue light, her spiralling energy fought against the coiling dark. Elrond did not waste himself in word-battle with the great Enemy, but poured himself instead into Vilya for there were thin streaks of emptiness in the silver-blue light. 

_ Ash nazg gimbatul,  _

Like black cinders, the words flew around him, malevolence so great they seemed to prick the air, seep like ink into his lungs... 

A _sh nazg thrakatulûk Agh burzum-ishi krimpatul._

‘Eru help me!’ Elrond cried, knowing Ash Nazg was winning, that it would take Vilya’s Power to itself and Elrond with it, would crack open Imladris to let Sauron in, not just the Eye for he already knew where the Ring was, but his armies, the Nazgûl. Vilya shuddered with the strain, and he felt the crackling of Power, splintering, shattering. 

He did not hear the door crash open. He was barely aware of the spurt of crimson Power that streaked to Vilya’s aid until he heard Mithrandir, Ólorin speak, felt Narya’s heat like fire. Silver- blue and red twirled, curled, lit, ignited together and suddenly the Eye was gone, the flames that scalded him, burned him, were gone. Vilya convulsed, silver-blue light bled into the air. And suddenly it was quiet.... 

Elrond fell shaking to the floor, on his knees, head bowed and barely felt hands on him, lifting him, pressing him down into the chair. He retched and the hands that held him were agony on his burned skin. Vilya was curled around him, pulsating, trembling and he drew her close, each nursing the other. 

A glass was pressed into his burned hand, words murmured in concern. At first he thought it was Elros and he cried out, lifted his other hand to that beloved, long-lost face, caressed the cheek so gently, disbelieving and the lips moved, face frowned in concern. Something was held to his dry lips and he drank, automatically registering athelas and something more potent... _ayudenya_ perhaps? Two drops in water?... Slowly, his hands realised they were not burned and Aragorn’s face was before him, concern in those grey eyes. Not Elros then, he thought anguished; his foster- son, his treacherous foster-son whom he had nurtured and who had come to take away his daughter to death, where he would not meet her again until the Ending of the World... 

Vilya sighed and there was the breath of the world. Light and air again filled him Elrond blinked. Aragorn. His _beloved_ foster-son. Tears filled his eyes and he stroked the stubbly cheek again, but this time knowing it was not Elros but Aragorn. He smiled. 

‘I am sorry, father. I wish...’ Such anguish too in Aragorn’s voice. 

‘I know.’ It was all he could say. 

He felt again the comfort of Vilya, and where Narya touched Vilya too. He struggled upright and saw that the glorious light that was Ólorin had dimmed and that it was only Mithrandir who stood staring out of the long, open windows southwards, where the Misty Mountains spread, the spine of Middle Earth, tailing far, far into the distance. 

‘I do not know what just happened.’ The Wizard’s voice was sober. ‘But without shadow of doubt, _He_ is coming,’ he said emphatically. ‘And swiftly.’ 

Elrond let his gaze drift, follow the line of cold mountains that closed about the Valley. 

‘We must go soon before it is too late,’ Gandalf insisted. ‘But they will be watching every road that leads from here. We need a decoy.’ And then he said with a heaviness in his voice that reflected the weight in his heart. ‘Sauron must believe they are taking the One to the Havens. His spies and the Nazgûl will follow.’ He looked sympathetically at Elrond. ‘You need to send someone West.’

And who would that be, Elrond thought bitterly. As if he had not lost enough. In his mind he saw Elrohir kneeling beside him in despair as they watched over Elladan.

‘As a sacrifice?’ Elrond said bitterly, suddenly looking up at Gandalf. ‘Is it still not enough that you and but eight others go into Mordor? We must send more?’

‘This is not the First Age,’ Gandalf said gently. ‘This is not Morgoth. The Valar will not arrive with some great army.’

Elrond looked away.

‘I will send Glorfindel and Tindómion west along the Old Road,’ he said at last.

Mithrandir nodded and glanced at Aragorn. ‘We must ready the Fellowship. We leave under cover of dusk and make for the Redhorn Pass. It is still unguarded if what Elrohir says is true. Sauron does not expect us to bring the Ring _to_ him so we go while we still have the advantage.’ 

Aragorn gently touched Elrond in his hand and Elrond covered his eyes. He knew what Aragorn would ask and he could not bear it. 

‘Ada, send Elrohir with Glorfindel. Give him something or he will go mad with grief. You have seen him?’ 

Elrond squeezed his eyes closed; this was sending his child to his doom. He had not forgotten the darkness he had seen in Elrohir and he felt a shiver crawl across his neck at the thought of Elrohir at the mercy of the Nazgûl, and without Elladan’s guiding light to bring him home. 

He felt Mithrandir’s hand on his shoulder, Narya suffused the air with warmth and there was, as there always was with Ólorin, the scent of frost and a slight breath of the Sea. ‘Such a death I do not foresee for him,’ Mithrandir said comfortingly for the connection between Vilya and Narya was still strong. ‘He has much to accomplish yet.’ 

Yes, but what might that be? Elrond thought. He shook his head. And Vilya was warm on his hand and images of Elrohir flooded him; Amon Sûl lightning flashing around him, a dark blade hissing in his hand striking like the serpent it was, the unearthly shrieking of the Nazgûl, a flash of good to his left, Glorfindel and his own light shining forth, three blazing figures on the high hill…and if they were not there? he asked. Darkness. The golden light that was Glorfindel was no longer. A blaze of red hair that he knew for Tindómion fluttered on the dead grass where he lay. Nine screaming wraiths and their winged steed blocked out the sky….

He took a breath. And another. Then he looked down at Aragorn and nodded. For if Elrohir did not go with them, he knew now that the wraiths would quickly find they had been fooled and they would be in pursuit of the Fellowship before they had time to reach the Redhorn Pass. And Glorfindel, Tindómion would fall.

0o0o 

Glorfindel leapt up the wide stone steps towards Elrond’s chambers. The air crackled like lightning had struck. A hot smell of metal fizzled in the air. He was not alone. Glorfindel could see Erestor’s tall figure disappearing within. As the door opened, Aragorn’s voice floated down. 

At least Elrond was well attended, thought Glorfindel grimly as he reached the top step.

The door opened quickly and Erestor’s long face peered out. ‘Oh, it’s you,’ he said rudely and pulled Glorfindel inside. ‘Vilya was assailed. Ash Nazg of course. It was only a matter of time.’ He led Glorfindel through the hall and pushed open the door to Elrond’s own rooms. The long casement windows that looked down the Valley to the Ford were flung open and he had the sensation that he was floating somehow between the mountains and waterfalls, like the mist.

Mithrandir was standing, staring out of the long, open windows southwards. As Glorfindel came into the room, the Wizard was speaking. ‘Glorfindel needs to make sure he attracts attention when he leaves.’ 

‘I will ensure that I do.’ 

Mithrandir turned his head quickly in surprise. and Glorfindel inclined his head. The old Wizard looked rueful for a moment and then as always, businesslike.

‘Forgive me, Glorfindel…This is a necessity, my friend. The Ring assailed Elrond, Vilya.’ He paused and met Glorfindel’s gaze meaningfully. ‘Sauron already knows it is here,’ he said emphatically. ‘And the Ring seeks to return to its master through taking Vilya and influencing Elrond.’

Influencing was an understatement, thought Glorfindel. It would devour Elrond no matter his power. There would be another dark lord with both Ash Nazg and Vilya. How long before it took Narya from Mithrandir? And then there was only Lorien.

‘I understand,’ Glorfindel said. He glanced at Elrond who had sunk into an armchair. He seemed almost shrunken after the assault and Aragorn was kneeling at his side like asking for blessing. Elrond did not look up and Glorfindel recognised the look on his face, that dazed, half dreaming state that followed foresight.

Mithrandir tapped his staff impatiently on the floor as if he wished to be off now, this moment. ‘He will be on his way unless we can convince him it has already gone. And we must make a path for Frodo, stretching Sauron’s forces out and beyond Imladris and especially away from Hollin for there lies our path. We need a diversion.’

‘And I am that diversion.’

At least Mithrandir had the grace to look a little apologetic, thought Glorfindel wryly but he could not complain when the Wizard was going into Mordor itself with the one thing that was most precious to Sauron. 

He bowed slightly and smiled. ‘It is the least I can do.’

‘Forgive me this, Glorfindel.’ Elrond looked up and Glorfindel saw the anxiety in his eyes, but also the quiet determination that had made Imladris almost unassailable. 

‘Tell me what needs to be done. It is why I am here,’ Glorfindel said firmly. 

‘Take Tindómion,’ Elrond flashed a grateful look at him. ‘Go west along the Old Road at great speed and with much noise and haste.’ Elrond leaned back and closed his eyes as if he were looking inwards. ‘Sauron will believe you are taking the One to the Havens. His spies and the Nazgûl will follow.’ He paused. ‘Take Elrohir too. It is his task.’

Glorfindel saw why Elrond was reluctant. Three captains of Imladris racing across Eregion with nothing between here and the Havens, pursued by the Nine. And whatever Orcs could be mustered between the Hithaeglir and the Tower Hills. He could not blame Elrond for baulking when his other son lay close to death and his daughter had chosen the way of Men. How could he not hesitate?

But Elrohir needed this. When Elrohir had sought Glorfindel out earlier, he had cracked with grief and guilt. It was more dangerous to leave him here to brood and seethe, Glorfindel knew. Over his long, long life, he had seen enough to know that Elves were not the light and purity that some songs seemed to suggest. He had warned Elrohir long ago about the _baur-úr,_ the fire of need that took some Men. But Elves were not exempt from its burning need to rend and tear in hate. He thought of Fëanor and his sons, of Eöl and Maeglin, of some Elves with whom he had served and of course, Alqualondë. He had seen the violence done to Orcs. Not only by Elrohir. After the Tears, there had been terrible brutality inflicted upon any enemy they found. He had seen worse things than impalement. 

‘I would welcome Elrohir on this if he is not to accompany the Ringbearer,’ Glorfindel said, sensing Elrond’s hesitation still. ‘He needs action, or Imladris will bear the brunt of his grief.’

He watched Elrond breathe out slowly and went to stand beside Mithrandir. ‘It is the Nazgûl, not Moringhotto,’ he said easily, turning to face Elrond. _Not dragons, not Balrogs,_ he did not say it but it was there all the same. ‘Their greatest weapon is fear.’ _They cannot incinerate you, they cannot grind your into the mud so you are but blood and pulp._

Erestor was watching him carefully and recognition flickered in his amber eyes, for only he too had seen such things. Mithrandir did not speak but stood leaning on his staff, head bowed as if in great thought and Glorfindel wondered if Ólorin had come with the host from Valinor at the end of the First Age.

‘They will only have whatever Orcs that can be mustered after the defeat you inflicted upon them.’ Glorfindel lowered his voice though he knew they could not be overheard outside this room. ‘We must travel swiftly. No more than twenty. Enough to make the Nazgûl consider this serious, a flight with the Ring, enough to be swift and draw them from here.’ He looked around at the serious faces. ‘I will take Tindómion and Elrohir. Galdor will go with us for he returns anyway and his five warriors, and Saeldir who fought with me in Angmar. We will leave amongst much fanfare and fuss, at midday.’

‘And the Fellowship will leave at dusk and in secrecy,’ said Mithrandir.

Mithrandir and Glorfindel looked at each other in agreement but Erestor stepped away from them and leaned his head against the cold glass window, and Elrond let his head fall against the chair in which he sat and his fingers dug into the plush velvet upholstery.

0o0o0o

There was very much to do and in the end, Glorfindel decided they should leave bright and early in the morning and not delay, although he fully intended that they would draw enough attention to fool the Nazgûl. Amron had brought back messages from his patrol that Orcs were moving in the mountains even after the rout that Elrond had delivered them some weeks before. Not simply escapees of the rout either but bands coming from the East, from Dol Guldur. And from the North down into the Trollshaws. A map was spread out on Glorfindel’s table, its edges held down by some clever device of magnets so it was smooth and uncreased.

Sauron was amassing his armies to assault Imladris, that much was clear. 

But Amron reported the Orc bands as slow and cautious of the Elves. It was clear that they believed the Elves had wanted to clear the High Pass, but Sauron would also know, of course, that Glorfindel and Erestor as well as the Sons of Thunder had been past the Angle and into the lost lands of Ost-in-Edhil and Phellanthir, that they had discovered the secret of the ruined Tower. 

Glorfindel stared at the maps of the Hithaeglir, Rhovanian and Eregion. If he were Angmar, Sauron, he would bring his armies here - he drew a finger down upon the High Pass where there were already large bands of Orcs and easily brought down into the Trollshaws.And here, down from the Ettenmoors to intercept the small band of captains fleeing to the Havens. But he would also seek to block the Gap of Rohan, and for that he would use Saruman.

Glorfindel chewed the end of a stub of pencil thoughtfully. Yes- Rohan. It might be a good idea to send a warning to …who was it who was king now? Theoden? And the Dunédain would need to be warned too. Perhaps he should suggest that they might join the Rohirrim for war must soon come to them? 

Caradhras was clear still, he mused, and Mithrandir was determined to travel that way for Elrohir had seen not a single Orc apart from a small band which he and Elladan had destroyed. That was probably the best route after all.

A cold shiver crept over his skin, and he glanced about to see if a draft had fingered its way beneath the crack between the door and wooden floor. No. It was something else.

He shook himself. Ghosts and phantoms, he thought. The incident at Phellanthir was too much in his thoughts; _shadow and flame._ ButRuinátoró was not the only Balrog. Others had fled at the end of the War as had Dragons and Orcs and werewolves. 

He shook himself free of phantasms and dreams. This is the Ring again, he told himself, although there was no buzzing or tinny whine that usually accompanied the voice of Ash Nazg.

At that moment, the door opened and cold air breezed in along with Tindómion. The Fëanorian smiled knowingly at Glorfindel and leaned over the map to see what he looked at. Lamplight glowed on his face, and gleamed on his bronze hair so for a moment, Glorfindel was thrown back in time…the eve of battle and Maedhros was leaning over a map, in the same pose with the same knowing smile, but he did not look at Glorfindel but Fingon…

‘So, we are bait!’ Tindómion declared. He glanced over his shoulder as the door opened again and Galdor entered, Saeldir close behind, pulling his cloak around him for the wind had suddenly grown cold.

‘Where is Elrohir?’ Saeldir asked, pulling out a wooden chair and shoving it closer to the fire. He sat in it and leaned forwards, rubbing his hands.

‘I am here.’ 

Glorfindel thought how heavy was Elrohir’s presence. One could feel it the moment he entered a room. An electricity seemed to crackle although that was mere fancy, but no question, one knew he was here.

Elrohir stood beside Tindómion and looked over his shoulder at the map. ‘Do we go by the Trollshaws?’ he asked. Never one to dance about, Glorfindel thought approvingly, but then he had been so involved in Elrohir’s and Elladan’s training.

‘Yes. We will go with haste up the Great East Road. I plan to meet the Nazgûl on Amon Sûl.’ Glorfindel traced the line on the map that showed their route. ‘Here to the Trollshaws. We should cross the river Mitheithel here.’ He paused. ‘I would show a beacon if I could to the Nazgûl, to tell them we are unafraid and have taken the old watchtower. But we have a need for at least a semblance of flight and secrecy.’ He glanced around at the serious faces. ‘We can expect battle there, my friends. But we will light watch fires and there are nine of us as there are of them.’

‘There are trolls in the hills also,’ said Tindómion. ‘But I think even they will not be fool enough to attack so many of us. I agree with you, Glorfindel. Only the Nazgûl will assail us.’ He paused thoughtfully. ‘How quickly will they come do you think? Their horses have been destroyed and though they will be remounted, those beasts are still mortal.’

Glorfindel looked steadily at each of them. ‘They have new steeds. More terrible than any horse I assure you. Winged lizards. They are huge, ugly reptiles. Not dragons though.’ He looked at each one of them, weighed their hearts and their courage. ‘The Nazgûl will come swiftly, with the speed of eagles. His spies will see us leave. We want them to. If they come upon us, we will stop and make a stand. We have archers amongst us who can shoot the creatures. This is why we head for Amon Sûl and not just Mithlond. We will have good sight of them and the creatures cannot easily land there.’

‘We should take Legolas Thranduillion then,’ Saeldir spoke up. ‘He is the best archer I have ever seen. It would be a comfort to have him with us. His nerves are like steel as well.’

‘He has other plans I hear,’ said Galdor sharply. 

‘Yes. He leaves for Mirkwood on the morrow,’ Glorfindel interrupted quickly before anyone else spoke, although both Elrohir and Tindómion knew Legolas’ destination, none of the others knew who had been chosen to represent the Elves on the quest. 

‘Well you would certainly get no help from that quarter.’ Galdor sniffed. ‘Typical Mirkwood. Shows up only to give bad news, that shows that yet again, as your foster brother says,’ Here he paused and bowed his head politely to Elrohir, ‘they have failed in their trust.’

Elrohir looked coldly at the Mithlond envoy and to Glorfindel’s surprise, he said, ‘I think my brother misspoke.’ 

Saeldir grunted approvingly from his chair. ‘I was not there when Aragorn said that,’ he said. ‘But anything Legolas may have done to offend anyone is well acquitted by me for his defence of our poor friend, Rhawion, and for his excellent eyesight and shooting.’

‘And I am offended by your remark, my lord,’ Tindómion said and he fixed Galdor with a penetrating eye. ‘If this is to be the way of this discussion,’ he looked towards Glorfindel, ‘then I would prefer to withdraw and you can give me your orders later.’

‘And I would follow.’ It was Saeldir who spoke in turn. 

Glorfindel felt a warm pride in his men for their defence of Legolas who had done nothing to deserve Galdor’s approbation. And remembered how Legolas had told him of the young warriors who had spent their lives trying to defend Gollum. What was his name? Anglor? Anguriel? He turned upon Galdor and  said firmly, ‘ Legolas accompanied me to Phellanthir when we were searching for signs of the Nazgûl. He saved my life and Elrohir’s at least once with a timely shot.’

‘Then I withdraw my remarks of course.’ Galdor inclined his head slightly towards Glorfindel in respect and Glorfindel bowed back but his eyes were flint. 

He wondered at the Mithlond Elf’s animosity towards Legolas; in fact it had been evident from the start of the council before Legolas hd even spoken. Perhaps there was some old history Galdor had with Mirkwood? But this was neither the time nor the place. He gave each of them a firm look and then tapped the place on the map that indicated the old watch tower. ‘Amon Sûl. It was the twin of Phellanthir even before it became the watchtower of the Kingdom of Arnor. This is where the Witch King stabbed Frodo.’

‘And this is where you intend we should make our stand?’ Tindómion looked interested. ‘I have not long come from there. Elrond dispatched me after Frodo’s arrival. He wanted to know how things lay.’ He pressed both palms flat against the table and looked up at them. ‘There is a dark magic upon the hill. A lingering of the Witch King perhaps?’ He met Glorfindel’s concerned eyes. ‘The barrow-wights have broken their seals and walk abroad. They stray too far from their barrows. And there are trolls in the foothills. More than in recent years. Wargs and goblins roam in bands and the lands about it are abandoned, have been for a half and Age of course. These are perilous times my friends. Meeting the Nazgûl on Amon Sûl will need all out strength. And deep magic.’

_ Deep Magic,  _ thought Glorfindel when all but Tindómion had gone. Of course he meant Noldor magic, curvë, and he wondered what the warrior had in mind. He had not left with everyone else but had taken the hard wooden chair vacated by Saeldir and leaned his elbows on his knees, looking into the fire.

‘Galdor was surprisingly useful,’ Glorfindel said. ‘I thought I knew every captain in the last Alliance but clearly not if he had his own command. His strategy for defending Amon Sûlis surprisingly good, do you not think?’ He looked down at the map again, tracing their route. ‘All we have to do is to keep them sufficiently occupied.’ 

Tindómionturned his head to look at Glorfindel and his grey eyes gleamed at the thought of battle with Angmar. He leaned back in the hard wooden chair. ‘I think we can give them enough to think about to delay them?’ He smiled at Glorfindel and the firelight flickered over his long hair so it was molten bronze, copper. But the suppressed excitement and ferocity was so Fëanorian that Glorfindel was thrown back, again to Fingon’s tent - they had been gathered and nervous, arguing over tactics and Fingon indecisive, When the curtain was thrown back and in stalked the Sons of Fëanor. They always drew the eye, the air crackled, how charismatic they were and perhaps Maedhros most of all; he was so tall for a start and his long bronze hair, which Tindómion had inherited, and the fierce delight in his pale grey eyes made one fall back instinctively. And here is was again, in his brother’s child…Glorfindel felt an unbearable sadness for his terrible fate…

_ Fingon, Fingon, Fingon… the fragment of silver-blue clasped to his heart as he dissolved into the Dark…Alone. Completely lost… _

__

He blinked and slowly disentangled himself from the silken web of those memories that sought to keep him, for as long as someone remembered, there was hope for Maedhros…But who would remember once the Elves had gone from these lands? 

‘Angmar will seek you out,’ Tindómion cautioned, his grey eyes upon Glorfindel and unaware of Glorfindel’s thoughts.

‘He knows he will not be vanquished by my hand,’ Glorfindel said. ‘Or yours.’He poured a glass of wine and lifted the decanter in invitation to Tindómion.

Tindómion shook his head. Then he rose and stretched, gazing into the fire. ‘I have something to do before I leave,’ he said, a smile hovered about his lips. He tilted his head slightly to look at Glorfindel. ‘I bid you good night.’

When he had gone, Glorfindel watched the stars for a moment and wondered what the future would bring. This is why I am here, he told himself. I was sent back to help Mithrandir, and Elrond. This is the last chance we have to rid Middle Earth of the failings of Elves. The next Age is for Men to decide, to rule and we will all depart. One way or another.

Except… perhaps it did not have to be that way…Maybe Imladris could be all that Gondolin was and more? There was a buzzing in his ears like a wasp. He felt like flicking it away but there was nothing there of course.

In the First Age the battle with Morgoth had been all about establishing the elven realms, the peace to live freely in Middle Earth, he thought. The Third Age was an epic retreat. At the end of this, there would be a new age: the Age of Men. Imladris would fall silent and fade. He suddenly felt bereft; he did not want to leave here. He did not want the sterile calm of Tirion anymore.

_ Gondolin was fair. Imladris could be all that Gondolin was and more. _

He remembered the white towers, the bells that rang with such joyousness. He remembered Idril, turning to him with her long hair like spun gold, her eyes meeting his with such deep, deep gratitude. Perhaps when he returned to Aman, she would be different, he thought, and found himself standing by the fire staring into it, his thoughts far far away….Perhaps she might recognise that he was so much worthier of her than Tuor. 

_ It was not Tuor who had saved those who followed Idril, but Glorfindel. It was you who smote the Balrog. It was you who killed Ruinátoró. _

Yes. It was I.

_ You should have had Idril as a reward. You could claim her on your return. _

Glorfindel blinked. Idril as a reward? She is not some sort of chattel to be bought or given, he thought incredulously. Ash Nazg, he recognised now. It was everywhere, creeping into thoughts, probing everyone’s secret desires. Firmly, confidently, he shut its insidious voice out.

_ You waste your time with me, Ash Nazg. Begone and do not bother me again. _

__

Silence. It was gone. But he wondered who it bothered now instead?

0o0o


	16. Farewells

 

Beta: Fabulous Anarithilen. Thank you as always.

Thanks to Spiced Wine for lending me Tindómion.

As this is now merged with More Dangerous, Less Wise, this chapter also runs into chapter 31. In More Dangerous, the scene between Tindómion and Legolas is from Legolas’ pov so I thought it would be good to have the same scene from Tindómion’s.

Chapter 15: Farewells

Arwen opened the door very quietly to the ward in which her brothers were. Elrohir sat with his brother, head bent and poured his love into Elladan. She stood next to him and rested her hand against his shoulder, her heart heavy with worry for her gentle, kind brother who lay so still and silent. Elladan’s long black hair had been twisted into a thick braid to keep the hair out of his eyes, mouth. And his eyes were sealed shut, like he would never open them again.

It hurt to see him like this.

Elrohir glanced up at her briefly and a smile flickered briefly over his face.‘ Go and spend your time with Estel,’ he murmured, returning his watchful gaze to Elladan. ‘He needs you now. Fill his head with memories to sustain him. Give him what he needs to resist the Ring.’

She smiled ruefully. ‘I would, except he will not have it,’ she said and Elrohir looked up at her puzzled for a moment.

Then he saw what she meant and he blinked at her in astonishment.

‘Oh don’t look so shocked,’ she said. ‘Why is it different for women than men?’ she asked.

‘It is not,’ he replied honestly. He pulled her down into the chair with him which was generous and wide enough for the two if they squashed together. ‘But you are my little sister and I held your chubby hand in mine when you dipped your toes in the Bruinen.’ He kissed the top of her head. ‘I wish you all the happiness in the world, but I wish I could make things easier for you. And for Estel.’

Arwen sighed, her head on his chest. She listened to it beat, so strongly. It was not often that she got to sit with Elrohir like this and, in spite of the reason he was still and quiet, she treasured it.

‘You have always been a support for us, Morók.’

He smiled at her pet name for him and she leaned against him; though it was Elladan she told first of her love for Aragorn, it was Elrohir who defended them when Elrond had railed against the betrayer that he had accused Aragorn of being. And it had been Elrohir who had petitioned Elrond against the condition he had set for Arwen’s hand, and told them both they should elope and live as Dunédain in the Angle. She loved Elladan for his gentleness with her, his kindness- he would always fix a toy and she ran to him if she had grazed a knee, but it was Elrohir who had spun her round like a top, thrown her high and caught her screeching for more….

Until he had returned that dreadful day with the bundle of rags and fragile bones. He had changed then and all his mirth and joy fled.

‘I will look after Elladan when you have gone with Glorfindel on the Greenway,’ she told him. ‘And when you come back, he will be so cross you went without him. He hates it when you go out and ride alone.’ She spoke without thinking and then cut herself short. No one spoke to Elrohir about those times. But he did not seem to notice, drawn in on himself and she saw how intently he gazed at Elladan.

She leaned against Elrohir more closely, to lend him comfort and felt his beating heart but beneath it, his silent grief.

When she was small, she used to think how strange it must be for the twins to have another person so alike you, the other side of your soul. But now she had found the other side of her own soul, she envied them that they had known that completeness for the whole of their lives, and she had only the briefest span of her life. _But I will make that count all the more,_ she thought. She did not mourn the loss of her father, her mother. She had made her Choice in full knowledge. But she was sad that her own children would never know her parents and that she would not share the joy of motherhood with her own.

She rested her head on her brother’s shoulder and his hand stroked her hair absently.

‘He will recover,’ she told him firmly. ‘I have seen him…’

Elrohir pressed his lips on top of her head. ‘So have I,’ he murmured. ‘But it does not help. I have seen myself standing on a quay and watching a ship sail away. Elladan is beside me.’

Arwen stared at him. He did not know? ‘I have seen that too. But I did not see you there,’ she said with sudden anxiety. ‘A ship’s sail was fading over the sea. It was not Mother’s ship, but another.’

They were silent, both watching Elladan as his breath rose and fell.

‘Were you on the quay?’ he asked softly and she paused. She did not know. Only that Elladan had been there, watching and it was not Celebrián’s ship that he watched, and knew that those they loved were departing. But she knew without doubt too, that the ship was the last to leave the Havens.

‘Do not speak of this to Adar,’ Elrohir said quietly.

‘Does this mean that you and Elladan have chosen?’ she asked but she did not really want to hear the answer. There was comfort in both paths, she believed.

‘No. It does not…’ but the hesitation in his voice made her wonder if that were not quite true.

‘There are those who will not sail,’ he added. ‘And there is much to do  still in Middle Earth. If Aragorn comes into his own, I would not abandon him, or you. And I would seek to guide your children. For a while at least.’

She hugged her big, strong brother then and he pulled her against him so she felt the hard leaness of him, the strength in him. But she felt too the edges of his raw hurt and pain and wished she could help him as he had always helped her. She wished he could find someone he could love and to love him in return as she loved Aragorn. To not have that in her life would be unbearable, she thought and buried her head in his shoulder. But she knew as well the fury in him, the rage that took him and made him hard to bear.

It would have to be a woman of great strength, she thought, to bear that. And she wondered as well how anyone could share Elrohir’s life if she had not also shared the hurt and anger in some way. So this woman would have to be a warrior too. She sighed, thinking that perhaps there was no one after all.

‘Why do you sigh?’ he asked kindly, looking down at her.

‘I wish all this was done with and the world was safe,’ she said and lay her head again on his shoulder, and together they watched silently the rise and fall of their brother’s chest as he breathed.

 

0o0o0o

 

Tindómion stood on the verandah outside his rooms that linked the rooms of those he called friends, Glorfindel, Elrohir, Elladan. There was a guest room there also and that was where Legolas Thranduillion had been housed since he was uncovered as the son of Thranduil. The other men had been gossiping how Legolas had caused uproar in the House. It seemed that Legolas had arrived, soaking wet and barely noticed, and the House staff had whisked him up into the eaves, thinking him merely Thranduil’s messenger. When Erestor had discovered the truth, there had been murder in his eyes for being so easily duped.

Tindómion and most of the men of the barracks had found it highly amusing, especially when they heard how Legolas had been caught stripping off in the wine cellar by none other than the master of the House himself. There was gossip too, as there always was about newcomers, and even more inevitably when one was as noteworthy as Legolas himself was, Tindómion thought appreciatively. The Mirkwood visitor had flirted outrageously with the housemaids, who were all swooning over him and claiming he had made advances upon them. Privately, and knowing Legolas better now, Tindómion thought that it was quite possible. There was more scandalous gossip that Berensul, one of the House stewards, had seduced him. Or the other way around, thought Tindómion. Berensul would hardly have resisted, for he was known to be one of Erestor’s spies and would have been expected to find out all he could. How much more entertaining therefore, for the inhabitants of the House, that Legolas Thranduillion had sneaked in and fooled everyone for so long in spite of Berensul’s best efforts. And no sooner had he been discovered, although Tindómion could not remember how that had happened, than Legolas had been whisked out of the eaves and deposited in the rather more luxurious apartment near to his own.

Conveniently, Tindómion thought.

He looked out over the starlit lawns and tranquil rose gardens. He was considering whether to knock on Legolas’ door to see if they might continue where they had left off, but Legolas was departing on his quest tomorrow and Tindómion departing on his own rather terrifying mission. He sighed and was lonely. Inevitably his thoughts turned and trod the well worn path of recrimination and regret.

He wished Gil was here.

He wished he had stayed at his side in that last battle.

He wished with all his heart he could undo the past and work it all again.

An iron railing swept elegantly along the verandah and whispered into air like a line drawing rather than metal. He leaned on it and sighed. His heart weighed heavily tonight.

A soft scuffle of feet on the verandah attracted his attention and he turned his head.

Legolas stood there.

His long pale hair streamed down his back to his hips and he stood naked in the moonlight, befuddled with dreams and his eyes half-glazed, staring over the lawns. Over one strong shoulder slid the wild painting on his skin, that in the starlight seemed almost sentient, as if a mythical creature sat on his shoulder and watched with him. It slid around his chest and waist, slithered about his hips and its tail, for so it seemed to Tindómion, curled about one thigh and trailed down his leg. Almost it seemed that Legolas had stepped out of the ancient past, before the sun and moon, and stood only in starlight at ancient cuivénen. He seemed still half asleep.

Tindómion could not take his eyes off him, but too, he wondered if Legolas was afraid. Going into Mordor with the one thing for which Sauron scoured Middle Earth, its insidious whispering tempting each one of them to take it, and only nine companions to Frodo. It was so foolhardy it almost took his breath. And daring. And courageous.

He turned and watched Legolas blink himself awake and stare around himself with wide eyes until he fixed upon Tindómion. He smiled and  his long hair slid over his shoulder as he tilted his head slightly in an obvious invitation.

Tindómion smiled. He was lonely and tomorrow they both set off on quests that led them into mortal danger.

They did not speak but stepped towards each other, and unsure if this was still a dream, Legolas held out his hand and led Tindómion within, into his chamber.

This time it was not the desperate and frenzied fumbling of earlier. There was almost a sense of sadness beneath the physical yearning.

‘I leave in the morning for Mithlond,’ Tindómion said as he shrugged out of his silk robe and left it curled on the floor like some sleeping beast. He looked down at the ties on his shirt to undo them whilst Legolas watched from the bed.

The Woodelf rested on his elbow, leaned his cheek in his hand and regarded Tindómion intently. ‘Surely you do not sail?’ he exclaimed.

Tindómion glanced up briefly at him, a smile tugged lightly at his mouth. ‘You think me so fickle that I would leave these shores just as Sauron grows strong?’ He smiled and pulled his shirt over his head, balled it up and threw it in a corner for he was hard and needy and wanted to lie skin to skin with Legolas.

He looked down at Legolas, half lying on the bed, the sheet pulled low over his lean hips and the dragon, for he saw it now he was closer, curling over Legolas’ muscled and lean torso. Tindómion breathed hard and said, ’Glorfindel goes with me, and Elrohir. We do not sail. We will be a decoy.’ He was aware of the irony that both of them were riding to possible death, and that he intended to draw danger from the other so that Legolas might face a greater danger and more likely death. They exchanged a rueful smile.  ‘We ride West to draw the Eye of the Enemy. You will leave at dusk so that you may slip away unnoticed and unseen.’

It seemed this was new to Legolas and yet Tindómion thought Mithrandir would have sent a message to each of the Fellowship. Legolas sat up. ‘We leave at dusk? That is a strange time for a journey to begin,’ he mused. ‘But in all our meetings, Mithrandir has said over and over that secrecy is our best weapon.’

‘This time tomorrow neither of us will be in Imladris,’ Tindómion said softly. He looked upon Legolas tenderly and then said, ‘You will be on your way south along the Hithaeglir and I will be riding along the Greenway with hopes to meet the Nazgûl once more on Amon Sul.’

Legolas almost gasped then. ‘Is that not truly dangerous?’

Tindómion laughed softly and leaned down to stroke a tendril of hair back from Legolas’ face. ‘Says the Elf who would go to Mordor with but eight companions and the One Ring.’ His eyes were soft and he pressed his mouth against Legolas’. ‘You are very fair and so brave it takes my breath away.’ Tindómion’s eyes travelled down Legolas’ body and back up to his face appreciatively. He touched very lightly, the faint scar on Legolas’ chest and frowned. He would have asked how he received it but Legolas cringed as if ashamed.

‘I am the least of my kin!’ he said, looking away. ‘I have stumbled and blundered my way into this and I cannot believe that Elrond chose me. I have done nothing to deserve it.’

Tindómion almost laughed but for the distress in his fair face. ’The least of your kin? Then they must be the Valar!’ He laughed gently because he did not want to frighten Legolas or to diminish him in any way. He felt regret that they had not met earlier, though Gil was there, an unseen, unspoken presence between them, but he thought that Legolas understood, and that Gil would forgive him this anyway. He lay on the bed beside Legolas, propped himself up on his elbow and stroked Legolas’ thigh.

‘My brothers are so much more than I,’ Legolas said regretfully. ‘Laersul is the leader of our warriors. He keeps the Shadow at bay in the Wood, and Thalos can talk the silk from a spider,’ he said. ‘I do not know why my father chose to send me,’ he added miserably.

Tindómion laughed and shifted closer to Legolas so his breath was warm on Legolas’ skin. ‘And their youngest brother crossed the Hithaeglir on his own and braved the Nazgûl to boot? He is one of the Nine Walkers who will take the One Ring to Mordor and destroy Sauron.’ Tindómion smiled and wrapped his hand in Legolas’ long hair. ‘I think your brothers will be proud of you and I know your father will be.’

Legolas opened his mouth to protest something about being unworthy, Tindómion was sure, but he wanted no more of that and stilled his protests with a kiss that burned hotly through his blood and loins.

‘Did you not join Imladris in its defence of Middle Earth?’ he murmured against Legolas ‘ cheek. He kissed Legolas again and this time pressed his strong powerful body against the whole length of Legolas. Legolas gasped, let his head fall back against the pillow and sighed. ‘You fought alongside Glorfindel and the Sons of Thunder against the gathering army of Orcs.’

Tindómion continued, stroking his skin, tracing the lines and swirls that were painted on his breast, over his heart. He stared at them; here was a green-gold oak leaf, and a beech, ash and thorn. And here tengwar script that read Legolas’ own names and his lineage. It was there too on his other arm and on each thigh. He did not ask why- he could guess and it made him suddenly serious and angry that there were those who doubted the Woodelf, who whispered about him. ‘Did you not slay an Orc that was Elrohir’s trophy? That was a feat to brave Elrohir’s wrath however righteous the torment.’ For Tindómion thought Elrohir right to inflict such warnings upon the Orcs, to make them fear Imladris’ wrath. ‘Did you not risk yourself to bring Rhawion out of Phellanthir? They say you are like our Sons of Thunder, that you will not leave a comrade behind. They say you are fair and brave and that the Woodelves are wild and free...’

Tindómion pushed at the waistband of his own breeches so they slid over his lean hips and paused for a moment teasingly until Legolas bit his lip and looked into his eyes. He saw how Legolas watched him, those long green eyes and how he licked his lips almost nervously. He wondered why Legolas was nervous; he was no shy virgin.

He gently reached up and cupped Legolas’ cheek. ‘Why do you doubt yourself? Your worth? I have told you what is said about you.’

Legolas looked away and Tindómion sighed and said, as if he were talking to his youngest warrior, ‘This is the Ring that tells you that you are unworthy.’ He put his hand beneath Legolas’ chin and brought his head up so the Woodelf had to look into his own silver-grey eyes. ‘It whispers to you of your unworthiness, does it not? You have felt it? Heard it?’

Legolas began to shake his head in denial, and then stopped.‘Perhaps there is some truth in what you say,’ he admitted wonderingly. ‘But how could a mere ring do that?’

‘It is no mere ring,’ Tindómion replied soberly and he sat up, all playfulness gone.‘It was made with the curvë of my kin,’ he said seriously, loosening the thick braid of his hair and carding it loose so it lay across his shoulders. ‘Celebrimbor knew how to unlock the Power in particular metals and gems. He learned it from his father who learned it from Fëanor himself, but Celebrimbor perfected it.’ Tindómion sighed. ‘His knowledge went beyond anything the world has ever seen... But he would not listen to those of us who warned him against Annatar. And so he was drawn into the making of the Rings, and that is why Sauron destroyed Ost-in-Edhel so completely.’

Legolas opened his mouth to speak but Tindómion kissed him before he could speak and pulled his hands through Legolas’ own hair, tugged gently. ‘I seem to have rather more clothes on than you,’ Tindómion observed smiling, and he slid completely out of his breeches now and dropped them on the floor beside the bed and looked at Legolas.

Legolas suddenly slid to the floor on his knees and pushed at Tindómion to sit on the edge of the bed. Then he leaned his elbows on Tindómion’s thighs, and let his hand drift over the flat belly, the hard chest and stroke his nipples gently.

Then he reached to thread his fingers through the heavy bronze hair, lifted it in his hand. ‘No one in the Wood has hair of such a colour. Is it common amongst the Noldor?’ he asked.

‘No. Indeed I have not heard that anyone beyond my kin have had hair this colour,’ Tindómion said, ‘but that is not necessarily seen as a good thing.’ He laughed breathlessly and caught Legolas’ hand. He kissed Legolas hard, pushing his tongue firmly against the full lips and into his mouth, feeling the surge of lust spike as Legolas sucked on his tongue and he thrust it in further aggressively and pulled Legolas onto the bed, shoved him down and straddled his thighs.

‘I think you talk too much,’ he said in a mocking playful growl and pinched Legolas’s nipples hard so he yelped slightly and grabbed at Tindómion’s thighs. Tindómion lowered his head then to Legolas’s chest and sucked at one nipple, letting his hand stroke firmly one muscular thigh until he brushed the hard cock. Legolas gasped, and Tindómion smiled to himself with one nipple caught lightly between his teeth and then he slid his whole body down so he lay pressed against Legolas and gave one long lick from his chest to his mouth and kissed him hard and passionately until Legolas was lost in desire, his eyes half-closed.

Tindómion leaned in and kissed Legolas again, but much more softly than he had before. ‘I do not think we will see each other again this side of the war,’ he said regretfully ‘Unless you come to bid me farewell when I leave.’ He looked at Legolas, hoping he would come. And when he said, ’Of course,’ Tindómion felt his heart swell, perhaps not with love such as he had felt for Gil, but with affection, admiration for the Woodelf who was going to Mordor with the One Ring.

Suddenly that hurt. Those odds were too high, too heavily stacked against him and he wondered what in all of Arda was Elrond thinking.

‘Ah, you are beautiful and brave,’ he said instead because he did not wish to ruin the moments they had together. ‘I want to remember you like _this_.’ He grasped Legolas’ cock firmly and tugged on it so Legolas sank back into the bed and his eyes half closed, long lashes fluttered against his cheek.

Tindómion knew how to give and take pleasure. He found Legolas as skilled and a demanding lover, a warrior used to giving and taking in the lust-filled aftermath of battle and it was passionate and hard and satisfying. Deeply so.

Tindómion closed his mouth over Legolas and sucked hard, found Legolas’ hands fisted in his hair, and his eyes closed, heard him gasp. It did not take long before he was pulled up to be kissed deeply. He found Legolas’s legs tightly wrapping around him, pulling him in so that he plunged deeply into the Woodelf. There was a liquid pooling of ecstasy; his own nerves on fire and he plunged into sensation and pleasure and forgot all else. His skin was aflame with desire, his balls pulsating, throbbing, churning. His muscles clenched and he went rigid and exploded in hot liquid.

 

0o0o

 

It was some hours later when Tindómion pulled away from where they lay entangled and sated and quietly stood up, went to the washbasin and cleaned himself again. He sat quietly on the edge of the bed and carded his fingers through his long hair thoughtfully and twisted it into its customary braid. He heard Legolas murmur incoherently behind him, still asleep he thought until he felt the bed shift and turned his head. He saw the long green eyes open sleepily and still filled with dreams.

Tindómion smiled. ‘I was hoping not to wake you, but I should have known better for a warrior of the Woodland Realm.’

Legolas stretched languorously and reached out to touch the marks of passion left on his skin. ‘I was rough with you,’ he said smiling and Tindómion laughed softly and tapped his finger on similar marks on Legolas’s shoulder and belly and thigh.

‘Then was I too much for you?’

‘Never.’ Legolas replied.

‘Will you still come to bid us farewell when we leave?’ he asked Legolas. ‘For the Havens,’ he reminded the Woodelf gently.

‘How could I not?’ Legolas put his other hand behind his head so he was propped up now. ‘Will it not scandalise Imladris that one of its glorious captains has been spending the night with me?’ he asked mischievously.

Tindómion threw him a look. ‘There will be no gossip or scandal,’ he said seriously. ‘I am discrete for Elrond’s sake and because I care about Imladris.’ He looked at Legolas, held him and added, ‘And you must be too. But it is not the scandal it used to be in Gil’s court.’

He leaned down to scoop up his shirt to hide the hurt; if he had lived, would Gil be lying here with him? He tugged his shirt over his head and reprimanded himself; here he was with one man and thinking of another. That was neither honourable nor fair.

He heard Legolas shift slightly and glanced up to see the long green eyes watching him. There was compassion, curiosity, not sympathy he hoped; he could not bear that.

‘You were…close.’ It was not quite a question.

Tindómion paused, said nothing, but looked down focusing instead on the button of his loose linen shirt. He felt even more ashamed for Legolas’ kindness, his understanding. ‘We were,’ he said at last. He looked down at Legolas and smiled for he looked so young, and curious. ‘I wish I had time to tell you of him,’ he said regretfully.

‘Perhaps when I come back?’ Legolas said with a bright smile, but at that, Tindómion felt overwhelmed with sorrow for he was going to his certain death. If he was fortunate he would be killed before taken; and he found he could not bear the thought of this beautiful body, this sweet young man being tormented, hurt, pierced, killed. He looked at him and suddenly knelt on the bed and kissed Legolas again.

If he had not loved Gil, he could fall in love here and right now.

’Why don’t you stay a little longer?’ Legolas said. ‘The night is barely passed. We have time, surely?’

At that Tindómion laughed. ‘You are incorrigible!’ he declared and stood up.

‘What will I do until we leave? It seems interminable!’ Legolas said and crossed his arms over his chest.

‘I have much to do before I leave. I have to pack, ready my horse and more while you lie here in the warm.’ He stroked a hand down Legolas’ arm, his flank. ‘We must make sure we draw the enemy’s spies towards us and away from you.’ He paused. ‘I wish I had all day with you.... I will think of you often.’

‘Then when I return I will hold you to that. And you can spend all day with me helping me to remember why I wanted all night with you.’ He flashed a dazzling smile at Tindómion. ‘It will be a desert for me until I return here, I am sure, with only Men and Hobbits, a grumpy Wizard and a Dwarf.’

Tindómion laughed loudly and shook his head. ‘I am sure you will not starve,’ he said wryly. ‘You never know, the Dwarf might like Elf-flesh.’

Legolas looked horrified and then his expression changed to curiosity, as if he had realised something that intrigued him. ‘You think me a man of poor morals indeed if you think I would even consider that. I would have to be very, very hungry,’ he added cheekily. ‘But perhaps I will find a Man or two as a tasty snack until I return.’

Tindómion had already pulled his breeches onto his long legs and buttoned his shirt while looking down at Legolas. ‘You must also practise the fiddle, my friend, for your playing is the worst I have ever heard in my life. And that is long indeed.’

He heard Legolas laughing as he turned and opened the door of Legolas’ room. He looked back once over his shoulder and then left and went out to prepare for his own journey.

 

0o0o00o0o

 

Next chapter: Glorfindel makes for Amon Sul.


	17. Nármófinion

The night before the Fellowship leaves.

Beta: Anarithilien, who just keeps me on track and is so generous with her precious time (Not that kind of Precious!!)

 

Chapter 15: Närmófinion

 

Erestor rested his hands on the railing of one of the iron-wrought balconies that overlooked the western approach of the Valley. A breeze that smelled of snow and pine trees lifted his hair. Elladan was sleeping now, more peacefully than he had since that dreadful battle when he had thrown Erestor to the ground, and that it was Elladan’s flesh that took the Morgul blade. His breath had eased and now the flush on his cheek was of sleep and not poison or sorcery.

Erestor had ceded his place at Elladan’s side to Elrohir, and Arwen had joined him. Erestor watched them from the window of his own rooms and saw how she leaned her head against Elrohir’s chest and he lifted his hand to stroke her hair. It was a tender scene, and one that rocked him with loss. Arwen had made her Choice, and it was commonly held that Elrohir too was most likely to make that path his, for he was like Elros in many ways, Erestor thought sadly.

But surely Elladan was most like the Elves? Surely he would not desert his father?

How much hope rested upon Elladan, thought Erestor, and if the pain in his chest was familiar it hurt no less.

What if he had died? What if he had died and his choice had not been made? Would he linger in some between-place? How could he make a choice when he did not know?

Erestor found his knuckles clenched so hard they were white and his fingers cracked under the strain. He looked away.

Along the terrace and the iron railing, so delicate that they appeared as mere tracery, were the other quarters and rooms of the counselors of Imladris and their families. There, across the lawns and closest to the waterfalls, were the quarters of the commanders and sons of Elrond. It was where Glorfindel was. He could see the light beneath his door, a thin gold line indicating that did Glorfindel not sleep either. He was to ride out on the morrow with but a handful of warriors to distract the Nazgûl, Sauron, for a while at least, thus allowing Frodo and the Fellowship to escape.

It was the most desperate, stupidest thing he had ever heard. And he had no control over it, and no argument to persuade them to do any different.

A burst of song came from the Hall of Fire as someone opened the door and lurched out into the cold air, the door closed again on the song. It was late and could only be some of the warriors drinking so late into the night, nay, the morning for it was surely near dawn? All good folk had gone to bed….which left him.

Well I am not good folk, he said with less irony and more bitterness than usual. 

Elladan lay bespelled because he had put himself between Angmar and Erestor.

Foolish, sweet boy. Beloved. 

‘Should have let me have it,’ he muttered. For he would cut his own throat before one hair on Elladan’s head was harmed, he would have let his blood soak and enrich the earth until not one drop remained. ‘Should have shoved the pair of them out of the door of that cursed Tower the minute they showed up.’ He squeezed his eyes shut and pinched the bridge of his nose. It didn’t do any good but he did it anyway.

A quiet laugh came from somewhere in the garden and he scanned the dark. Nothing. He let his gaze drift again over to the commanders’ quarters. A crack of light still showed beneath Glorfindel’s door so Erestor knew he still burned a lamp. Wakeful. Restless as he.

Movement pulled his gaze into the gardens once more for another figure stood in the shadows.

Elrohir. Erestor would recognise him anywhere; those powerful shoulders and that terrible stillness he had sometimes, like a predator. He was absolutely still now and looking up towards the balcony where Glorfindel’s rooms were. A door opened nearby, not Glorfindel’s but further along and another Elf emerged. 

Tindómion. 

The Fëanorian seemed to linger a moment, looking over his shoulder to within and said something. Then he quietly closed the door, an amused smile on his lips, and walked purposefully to his own room.

So. A secret assignation, thought Erestor unsurprised. Tindómion was discreet but not apologetic for who he was. Typical of his House, thought Erestor with pride. And not a single one of them had had a shred of discretion but Maedhros…and he was discreet almost to the point of destruction.

He watched Elrohir turn his head to follow Tindómion’s path and wondered if there was more to their friendship than met the eye…Surely not? Elrohir was chaste, but not pure. His rage and killing lust was still lust. His violence….

Erestor knew that violence. Had he not seen it, the baur-ûr, in Sirion, in Beleriand? Doriath? Oh, he had seen it in too many skirmishes to mention or even remember. He had felt it too, and in those moments it had devoured all reason. 

One could not run with wolves without becoming fleet and savage. One could not fight the Dark with Light, whatever they said. One could only really fight it with its own weapons and Erestor had honed his weapons with ruthless skill. He was not the only one in Imladris who had fought in those battles, but they only acknowledged each other in their silence.

Erestor looked into the garden; Elrohir was still there, cradled in the shadows, watching, although Erestor did not quite know what it was that he watched. He seemed to have fixed his gaze upon the door of the room Tindómion had quit; it was the guest room, and Erestor knew where everyone lodged…So he knew it was young Thranduillion who had entertained Tindómion the night before both left on equally blighted quests. 

Erestor watched for a while. There was no further movement on the terrace. Legolas’ door remained closed. The thin crack of light still showed under Glorfindel’s door, and Elrohir remained, staring up at the terrace as though he dared not go there even though his own chambers and Elladan’s were there. Tindómion had not gone to his own chambers but disappeared into the darkness that softened the Valley, and had not returned.

These two, he thought, Elrohir and Tindómion, both of the House of Finwë and so alike though only one was of Fëanor’s blood, that fabulous magnificence that had been gobbled up by the hungry Dark….No. He paused, it was only his poor beloved lord who they had found in the Dark, and he was alone. And alone still

Bitterly Erestor turned back to his own rooms. He poured wine into a fine glass goblet and drank it, let the richness soak his tongue, his mouth. In the darkness the mountains stretched away south but a sliver of moonlight gleamed upon the snowy peaks. He stared up at the mountains.

Ah, my lord, he thought. Dissipated into the Dark, his Song dispersed, his lost notes calling, beseeching, seeking each other in their profound loneliness. Ah. The loss. But I will not forget, he swore. He would return to Phellanthir and find a way to release Maedhros. For there must be way. Celebrimbor had knowledge and curvë beyond anyone since his grandfather. He must have known, planned, designed the Glass to bring Maedhros to him. It had been their intellects, shared curiosity that had found fellowship in the other, and for a while, Tyelpo had found refuge with them in Himring.

A cold day of course. The paved stones under their feet cracked with frost and the air almost spiked the throat with cold though they stood in a chamber in the tower, filled with astrolabes and metal-coated screens that gleamed in the dull light. There were delicate glass tubes filled with coloured liquids on a clutter of shelves around the stone walls, and a small forge at the centre burned dully.

‘Is this the alloy of which you spoke?’ Maedhros cradled a bowl of metal carefully in his hand. A dull sheen, like pewter it was, but its form, shape was exquisite, as was all Tyelpo’s work. ‘And you say it will split light? Does it reflect or refract?’

Tyelpo, excited and finding in his uncle a like curiosity and interest, had leaned forwards and tilted Maedhros’ hand so the winter sun caught upon the bowl and a sudden arc of light spun from its surface. Delight shone on Maedhros’ face then and the two bent their heads and talked in excited voices using words that neither Erestor nor Maglor knew. The two had shrugged at each other with complicit smiles….

Erestor sighed. Too long ago and all that knowledge lost. Forever. There was no one left who knew half the secrets that had been Tyelpo’s. Or Maedhros for he had been obsessed with plant cultivation, growing food where it could not be grown, breeding livestock that could survive sieges. But it was Curufinwë who commanded his son, as he had been commanded by his own father…

Erestor stilled.

Tyelpo loved Maedhros but not enough to commit his life to reaching him surely? 

Perhaps Celebrimbor had thought that Maedhros was not alone….

Excitement fluttered in Erestor’s chest; suppose they were all there! If Curufinwë were there, then he would know how to use the Glass. And if he were there, perhaps there would also be Fëanáro himself!

The excitement became trepidation. Could it really be that Fëanáro and all his seven sons were there somewhere…in the Dark. And that they could be drawn somehow to Phellanthir? What would it take?

Erestor spun on his heel and took long strides to the windows. He threw open the tall windows to let in the cold brittle air that carried frost and snow.

Perhaps it is not too late...

A whisper...White fire. Distant. Like stars exploding in the immenseness of the Void... Burnished bronze hair and black, long silk streaming out in the wind…No. It was not too late. Now he knew: the Glass had opened a possibility.

He saw them then, as once they had been. He could take out each memory, one by one as if they were jewels, and hold them up to the light, explore each facet. How he had loved the magnificence of them, but Maedhros most of all. Maedhros the Tall. Maedhros One-Hand, tempered steel...How they had blazed! Like stars. No, brighter. Brighter than Eärendil for his borrowed Silmaril was but a shadow of Fëanor’s flaming soul. How could such fire be quenched? Now he knew it was not… Erestor was certain now that Maedhros could be summoned once again. If there were a strong enough link, a call to his heart. And if he came, then perhaps….perhaps there were others.

There are two here in Imladris that he will come for.

Yes. Tindómion, son of his brother, and Elrond, son of his heart. He would come for either of them. For both of them.

But more, he would come for Maglor. That last, lost one…And not only Maedhros but others.

He stared at the glitter of starlight on the hard snow on the mountains looming above the Valley. For a moment he thought he saw a comet fall, blaze, a stream of bright red fire ... But it was not real, only a thought. He had not been there at the last, when his beloved lord had finally despaired and cast himself into that fire. 

The moon was now a thin crescent in a black sky. He saw himself reflected in the glass, stared; the scar was invisible now, he thought, yet it throbbed as if to remind him of his fealty, as if Maedhros himself knew what was offered. He lifted his glass in silent salute to he who burned like a star, like a sun in the Void. 

‘I will not leave you in there, my lord. I will find a way,’ he swore. As he had that last night when Maedhros had wrung that promise from him. Wrung it out of him as it had wrung out his love, his heart. 

‘Swear to this, dear Nármo, who has ever kept my heart. Even as you kept watch over he I love more than life itself, swear you will watch over these children that are of my heart if not my blood.’

Ah. How he had wept, pleaded. Spare me this, Lord. My place is with you.

But Maedhros would not spare him this; instead he had turned his head and for a moment, he could see how this man had so utterly held Fingon’s heart. Maedhros had lifted his eyes that were like silver stars and held Erestor in his compelling gaze. ‘No,’ he had said but so gently it made Erestor weep even now, these long, long years afterwards. ‘You will guard my children. You have my heart, Nármo. As always you do.’

He had pressed his hand against Erestor’s chest, and his skin felt warm where Maedhros touched his heart. And then he had smiled, so sweetly, so relieved, that Erestor could not deny him.

He pushed himself away from the window, shaking himself out of memory and nostalgia. There was a pressure in his head that had been there for days, he realised, and that he thought had eased...but it was back already. He smoothed his hands over his hair and rubbed his temples; there was a high-pitched whine in his ears against the background beat of blood. 

He frowned slightly and then he turned and strode down to the door of his study, threw open the door to his bedchamber so it slammed against the wall and then banged shut behind him. With a steady hand he poured himself a glass of cold, clear water from a jug on his dresser, and drank it all, felt it ice-cold in his chest, his belly, let it ground him.

Glancing up, he caught the image of his hard, lean body in a mirror that hung over the dresser, reflecting the light. His own face emerged from the dark of his room; he thought it hard, severe, and strange perhaps, with his amber eyes and distinct brows. Cheekbones sharp, like knives, since Elladan had been struck down. He frowned disapprovingly at himself and stared. His face seemed to float in the glass, against darkness, and the flickering candle flames seemed disembodied. 

It is not too late...They are still there, in the Void…You simply need to reach out and take….

His eyes caught on his own reflected gaze. Understanding dawned in his reflected amber eyes and he gave himself a ferocious smile, lifted one fine black brow in sardonic appreciation. He raised his glass to himself. Let the insidious voice of the Ring whisper on. It was not saying anything he did not already think. 

And you, Ash Nazg, he wondered, Who will come for you, I wonder? Who will come for your master? 

The silence that struck was immense, potent. 

Who is it that is imprisoned in the Dark that you would seek?

His eyes narrowed and mind sharpened. Yes, I know what you seek, Ash Nazg. I know why you wish that I return to Phellanthir, and wear you on my finger I suppose. 

He laughed inwardly so It would know that It had no power over him. Begone, trinket, he said dismissively. You are nothing against the greatness wrought by my House. You are but one facet. Your constant whine is a mere irritant.

There was a furious buzzing like an angry bee and he laughed.

Be gone! You have no power over me. 

The buzzing reached a furious crescendo so it felt like the bee was trapped inside his skull and bounced off one side and then the other…and suddenly, it stopped. 

Silence.

He waited. 

Nothing. It had truly left him. He frowned and slowly turned as if he could find it by simply looking. But it had gone.

He wondered where it went now, whom it plagued instead, for it sought power. It had been defeated by Vilya, and it could not defeat Gandalf, not here with both Nary and Vilya so close. It had failed with him….

Suddenly he thought he knew. Draining his glass, tight-lipped and angry, slamming the glass down as he left, he crashed out of his room, and strode purposefully down the passageway and out onto the lawns. He strode across the grass, leaving dark prints where his boots brushed the wet grass, and leapt up the wide stone steps to the terrace of the Valley’s commanders. 

The thin crack of light showed still beneath Glorfindel’s door as he expected and he banged once on the door. He did not wait but threw open the door to find Glorfindel, as he had surmised, sitting at the table in his room, strewn with papers and reports and rosters and looking irritated and unusually grumpy. Erestor almost stopped for he had rarely seen Glorfindel anything but patient and kindly. But he must be tired too, for they had only relieved Elrond and Vilya from Ash Nazg’s assault hours ago and Glorfindel was to leave in the morning. He must have the weight of things to be done before then.

Glorfindel threw Erestor a startled and irritated glance. ‘Erestor! What do you mean barging in here like this?’ he snapped and Erestor was surprised. Erestor himself was known for being short with folk but Glorfindel was elevated to almost god-like status by the inhabitants of Imladris. He frowned but Glorfindel continued with barely a pause. ‘And what in Manwë’s name were you thinking earlier, talking to Galdor about Sirion as if it were a philosophical question? What would have happened had they done the logical thing and returned it to those it rightfully belonged to! What did you hope to achieve by that? We want Galdor on my side when I leave please, not utterly alienated by your snide goading.’

Erestor frowned at the sudden turn. Had he said that? He could not recall but Glorfindel looked almost incandescent...

‘I did not say exactly that,’ he objected. But a little blush of heat on his back crept between his shoulder blades. 

‘Very well, it is the sense of what I said,’ he admitted, throwing himself into the chair opposite Glorfindel. He may have been goading Galdor even further at the time. But he would never admit he was wrong. Instead he calculated the best way to really distract Glorfindel. So he looked contemplatively at his fingernails and focused on the reason for his visit. ‘I have come to warn you to put a guard on the Hobbits -now. Even just for this night and day before they leave. For their safety.’

‘Erestor, I have already done that. There has been a guard on them since they arrived. I am pleased it is so discrete that you did not notice and your spies are so useless that they did not know. Now, if you have come to irritate me you are doing well,’ Glorfindel clenched his pen so hard it almost broke. ‘Now thank you for telling me and now clear off and plan your next banquet or whatever it is you do.’ Erestor saw that he had gritted his teeth and his lovely blue eyes normally so full of joy and so fearless, were seething with fury. 

Erestor cocked his head slightly and narrowed his eyes: so, he was right. He had never seen Glorfindel angry. He decided he quite liked it. There was a slight flush on his high cheekbones and his full lips were pressed together but the fire in his eyes was barely suppressed, furious, it was true, but it hinted at the passionate soul beneath that sophisticated and beautiful veneer. Yes- his hunch was absolutely accurate. Ash Nazg was here.

‘And I don’t like the way you just barge in as if you never have to knock like everyone else,’ Glorfindel added. He shuffled some papers pointedly and banged them on the table.

‘Why are you bothered?’ asked Erestor provocatively, almost unable to help himself. He narrowed his sharp amber eyes and cast his gaze quickly about the room. ‘It’s not like you would ever have anyone in here,’ he said deliberately scornful, ‘and you have nothing I haven’t seen before. Plenty of times,’ he added with a staged leer. 

Normally Glorfindel would have laughed at that but this time he threw a quick, nervous look at Erestor and then quickly looked away. Erestor paused. ‘You don’t have a Dwarf in here do you?’ He peered under the bed melodramatically. ‘Or young Thranduillion? Oh, that cannot be for I have just seen Tindómion leave him, looking most pleased with himself.’

Glorfindel drew his breath in sharply and glared at Erestor. His blue eyes were very blue, ice-blue, thought Erestor more than a little speculatively. He let a smile touch his lips and imperceptibly tilted his head so his long hair sifted over his shoulders. 

‘It is Ash Nazg that makes you fiery,’ he said, knowing it would annoy Glorfindel even further. Knowing...he thought to himself in surprise, why on Arda was he set on provoking Glorfindel when he had come simply to forewarn him? Surely Ash Nazg had no power over Erestor himself? Had he not dismissed it only minutes ago?

Glorfindel lifted his head to stare. ‘You dare say that?’ he demanded rising to his feet. 

Erestor rolled his eyes. ‘Very well, do you prefer I say Isildur’s Bane?’ he said, deliberately misunderstanding Glorfindel’s outrage at the suggestion that he was affected by the Ring. ‘Although it is less his bane, than ours,’ Erestor continued blithely ignoring Glorfindel’s rising irritation. ‘May Isildur rot in some nasty corner of the Hells with a Bal...’ He stopped. ‘With a bag of stoats in his breeches,’ he said slowly seeing the ice in Glorfindel’s eyes, and even he had to consider before truly awakening that cold wrath. ‘It should be Celebrimbor’s Bane, or Gil-Galad’s. Why do we name it after that greedy stupid Man...’ He shook himself, wondering why he felt the hot fire kindle in his breast. 

Glorfindel took a step towards him, and Erestor too rose to his feet, and did not step down. He never did. Fëanorian, he told himself, like a battle cry, his blood firing and thundering through his veins. 

‘Not only do I prefer,’ said Glorfindel cold to Erestor’s fire, coming closer and Erestor lifted his sardonic black eyebrow and let his thin lips curl into a smile that was almost predatory. ‘I insist.’ 

Erestor had forgotten even what they argued about but he felt his own fists clench, and his hard coils of sinew and iron muscle bunched. He felt his amber eyes narrow and lifted his chin in expectation. He was no servant or soft councillor; indeed, he was a match for Glorfindel should it come to blows, verbal or physical...He almost flinched at the alien thought; this was not at all what he intended. He had intended to show Glorfindel how Ash Nazg had seized the Valley’s commander, had caught Glorfindel’s vulnerablity…

Glorfindel stood close, almost trembling and his blue eyes glittered. 

He stopped suddenly, breathing hard. He seemed to tremble and then abruptly pushed Erestor hard, so he stumbled and fell back into the chair. 

‘You are so masterful when you are angry,’ Erestor grinned in ferocious delight. ‘Are we going to fuck?’ With outrageous cheek that only he could do, Erestor puckered his lips and made a loud smacking kissing noise that he knew would infuriate Glorfindel further.

Glorfindel stood over him, fists clenched, breathing hard. ‘By Elbereth, you are the most irritating man I have ever met in all my life.’

‘Just this life?’ Erestor grinned irrepressibly, although his heart was beating wildly, and he had been poised to fight back. ‘Or both? You knew Turgid and by Eru, he was irritating. So I am flattered.’

At the mention and insult to Turgon, Glorfindel looked like he had been struck. He took a step back and his face, always so full of fearless joy, was suddenly vulnerable and there was such pain in his eyes that Erestor wondered if he had not gone too far but he could not seem to stop now.

‘How dare you speak of him in such a way, Erestor. Whatever your proclivities, they are not mine.’  
Glorfindel sank into his chair and looked away out of the window where the moon had risen over the mountains and turned the snow silver. 

A sudden high pitched whine sounded in Erestor’s ears, and he found himself saying, ‘You deny yourself great pleasure, my friend. Perhaps you could imagine that I am Turgid...’

‘Erestor! Do not say it!’ Glorfindel’s blue eyes blazed and even Erestor paused...and then ploughed on fearlessly. There was a crackle of Power. Blue-burning-ice and fire ringing a circle of gold.

‘Imagine I am ...’

‘If you dare...’

‘Did he not have my hair?’ Erestor pulled his own long, thick hair over one shoulder, circling the heavy horsetail and pulling it through the circle of his forefinger and thumb. ‘His eyes were blue as I recall, but I could keep my eyes shut.’

Glorfindel was staring at him, lips parted and eyes wide, furious. His fists were clenched on the arms of his chair and there was an angry flush to his cheeks.

Erestor smiled. ‘You have never looked lovelier. I have never wanted to fuck you until now. Come.’ He let his long hair slide through his fingers, spread it so it fell in a gleaming sheet. ‘Think how we will look together.’

‘And if I did,’ Glorfindel was suddenly defiant. ‘What would Elrond think if we turned up for my departure holding hands?’ He narrowed his blue eyes then and shot a final barb. ‘What would Elladan think should he awaken?’ 

It was like cold water and Erestor paused for a second but nothing touched his smooth face. His head cleared suddenly and he breathed in through his nose sharply. How had he let it go this far? What had happened to bring them almost to blows, real and not the feigned or teasing that characterised their interactions? If Elladan should awake, he thought, I would fall on my knees and thank every Power in the Universe. I would praise Manwë himself if I thought he had a hand in it.

This is Ash Nazg, he thought, and felt it sneer against his mind, for dismissing It so easily.

Slowly, and with a gentler smile than before he replied, ‘They would think you a sly dog and envy you.’ But it was the light teasing of their normal conversation and not the heavy barbed warfare of earlier. He rubbed a long hand over his face and smiled weakly.

Glorfindel stared at him, almost shaking...and the blue-ice flashed and suddenly dimmed, like a flame that does not catch. 

‘This is Ash...’ he paused, not wishing to rile Glorfindel further, not now when Erestor was seeing clearly. ‘It is the Ring. It is making us behave like this. Both of us.’

‘You come too close.’ Glorfindel’s face was still closed, burying the hurt so deep. It made him vulnerable, Erestor thought and still he was not completely clear of Ash Nazg’s malevolence.

‘What were you thinking about when I came in?’ He watched Glorfindel’s lovely face closely. The full lips stayed closed but he blinked slowly, a sure sign, Erestor knew that he had caught the scent. He always did.

‘You said I was irritating,’ he reminded Glorfindel. ‘I said I was flattered as you had known Turgon.’ He did not repeat his insult, pausing, letting Glorfindel follow his thought. ‘Why did you immediately think of my proclivities? I did not mention anything that could have been so construed.’ 

‘You are doing it again,’ Glorfindel said angrily and Erestor sighed. Sometimes, for a twice-born lord of the Noldor, Glorfindel could be remarkably obtuse. 

‘What were you thinking about when I came in?’ he prompted gently.

‘I was planning the route for tomorrow....’ Glorfindel began defensively. Then he stopped, frowning. ‘No...I had become distracted,’ he said wonderingly. ‘I was thinking of Turgon...remembering the bells of Gondolin. I was remembering Idril... She was lovely,’ he said softly and Erestor watched sadly. He had always known.

‘That Tuor,’ said Erestor, sending Glorfindel a sly sideways glance. ‘He was a cunning bastard.’ And suddenly he saw a flicker of deep loss on Glorfindel’s face and something else...something he recognised...A darker hope fed by Ash Nazg.

His own hope he had dispelled and now he must do the same for Glorfindel. Erestor sighed and it surprised him for it came from somewhere deep, deep inside, buried as deep as Glorfindel’s thin spear of misery. 

‘You are troubled,’ he observed very gently. ‘As was I. And I thought I was in control of my thoughts. I was not.’ And then he asked again. ‘What were you thinking when I came in? My question is not idle, I promise you, my friend,’ he said quickly, holding his hand out towards Glorfindel appeasingly. ‘Think what we have seen - first at the council, then at Phellanthir. I was too much in memory and found myself thinking....’ He paused, remembering how he had believed himself in control of those thoughts…but in truth now he wondered. ‘I was thinking of things I thought impossible but I find now that they are. Maedhros is there.’ He rose to his feet and turned towards the window that looked down the Valley and beyond, the South where the ruined tower loomed in darkness. ‘He is here.…He can be called back.’ He paused and then, admitting it finally, he said, ‘but for a while I was thinking how he might be released. That I might find a way…That perhaps he is not alone in that cold place.’

Glorfindel stared at him for a moment and then shook his head, looked down. ‘Too much in memory,’ he agreed. 

Erestor waited, and allowed himself a moment of regret that the long, golden hair would stay pristine and the ice-blue eyes would not kindle in passion as they had a moment ago in fury. It was a waste, he thought and smiled slightly. Not for Erestor, but someone should enjoy such glorious magnificence, he thought a little sadly, a little bitterly. It would have to be a woman of courage and beauty for Glorfindel, he thought. Like Idril. 

‘How much we have lost,’ he murmured. ‘Such magnificence. I remember the sunlight on the spires of Gondolin. The white stone of Nargothrond, and Himring’s bleak elegance.’ He reached out and lightly, so gently, touched Glorfindel’s cheek; he was warm. ‘Were they not glorious? Fingon and Maedhros. Do you remember? Turgon and Echthelion. Finrod. Fingolfin.’ Erestor sighed and smiled slightly. ‘And how we are diminished by their loss.’

He gazed for a moment West, and felt the fury in his heart that he thought had long ago settled and slept. It surprised him to feel it still there. ‘They cannot come back,’ he said softly. ‘Whatever the Ring is whispering to you, my friend. They cannot come back. Your loved ones are over the Sea. Somewhere. We hope.’ 

‘And you?’ Glorfindel asked softly. ‘Do you bid yourself lose hope the same as I? Your loved ones, it appears, may not be over the Sea at all.’ Glorfindel’s sharp blue eyes pierced Erestor and he knew that Glorfindel had perceived every hope, every dream. And understood. ‘Tell me the truth for the Ring read your heart rightly, did it not? Do you not intend to return to Phellanthir, even though you cannot release him?’

Erestor looked at him defiantly. ‘Of course.’ He lifted his chin. ‘You would. For your beloved Turgid, you would.’

He could not help it. He had hated Turgon for his betrayal of the Noldor, for his cowardly scurrying off to his mountain kingdom and abandoning Fingon when he needed hi most… because Fingon would not forsake his lord.

But instead, Glorfindel said with utmost gentleness, ‘We must guard each other’s hearts, Närmófinion, for I find I do not know which is my voice, and which is not my own.’

Närmófinion. It jolted Erestor to hear it, and he wondered if Glorfindel knew how it still pierced him to hear that name though the one who had given it to him no longer drew breath...and how he longed to hear it spoken... But he merely let his amber eyes focus on the snow on the mountain peaks, where the slow sunrise gilded it and made them gold.

 

Glorfindel watched him steadily. Then, so quietly that Erestor could barely hear him, he said, ‘You asked what I was thinking of when you came in.’ He paused and the he said softly, ‘I was thinking how wrong it was, how fair was Gondolin. I was thinking how it should be built again and I be its King.’ It was said with such honesty it took Erestor’s breath away, and Glorfindel’s beautiful face so open and full of joy normally, was closed in grief. ‘This time I thought, it would not fall...This time, I would know. This time…there would be no Maeglin to betray them and let them pass.’ He breathed out softly through his nose, an exhalation of longing so poignant, such yearning for what was passed. 

Erestor knew that longing, that grief. There was not a day passed when he did not miss the diamond-bright burning of the Noldor in their pomp. Diminished indeed.

 

0o0o0o

 

Tbc

Probably only two more chapters I think.


	18. Galdor of the Havens

Apologies for the long delay- just work.

Thanks to all reviewers for your kind encouragement and to the wonderful Spiced Wine for lending me Tindómion, her fabulous OFC.

I have not waited to get this back from the lovely and patient Anar, so if there are errors, PLEASE let me know and they are all my own work!

 

Summary(it's been long time!)   
Glorfindel and Erestor have returned from Phellanthir, where they lost Rhawion's feä to the Nazgûl, but they also found an artefact left from Celebrimbor's time. A Mirror that is the Door to the Endless Dark. A Balrog was summoned by the mere presence of Glorfindel and tried to escape to fight him and Erestor's presence appears to have summoned the feä of his long dead lord, Maedhros. Maedhros defeated the Balrog but in doing so, was dispersed- as the spirits cannot be destroyed permanently as they are already spirits. During the battle, Elladan and Elrohir joined them but Elladan was wounded by a morgul blade and Elrohir took him back to Imladris but not before Angmar confronted them and twisted a spell into Elrohir's already guilty and dark desires. On their return, Vilya was attacked by the One Ring and it was decided that the Fellowship should leave and Glorfindel provide a decoy. Glorfindel has taken Elrohir and Tindómion with him on his flight to Mithlond to beguile Sauron into believing that they are taking the One Ring over the Sea.

 

Chapter 16: Galdor of the Havens

 

Hooves pounded over the short turf, plunged into the water so that silver drops sprayed into the air, heaving flanks and flaring nostrils, flying manes and tails high. The elven company raced along the road from Imladris and splashed across the ford of the Bruinen, heaved up onto the opposite bank and flew onwards swiftly, racing the sun.

Glorfindel did not so much as glance back over his shoulder for he knew the Elves who followed were as stout hearted as he, their horses as sure-footed and brave as their riders. He heard Galdor call once to his men and heard an exasperated curse from Saeldir but other than that, there was only the pounding of hooves on the short turf of the Greenway, the heavy breath of galloping horses, clink of metal, swords and weapons and stirrups. They needed as much time, distance as possible between them and Imladris, to reach Amon Sûl before the Nazgûl and their cold-skinned steeds.

They barely stopped during the three days of hard riding, and only then to give their horses rest and to drink at the cold streams, or when it was too dark for the horses to continue safely. Then they rested uneasily and although they posted watches, few slept.

It was one of those brief stops. A stream ran between two hills amid a small patch of woodland, providing some shelter. Glorfindel unsaddled Asfaloth, let him crop the short turf and shake himself slightly. Tindómion pulled up beside him and slid down from his own horse. He patted its neck and loosened the girth. His horse turned to nudge Tindómion impatiently. He laughed and shook his head. 'Not until you have drunk from the stream, old friend.'

Asfaloth was already standing knee-deep in the stream and dipped his nose to the cold water. Elrohir led a chestnut horse, Anguirel, as mercurial and uncertain of temperament as his name suggested. For Elrohir's own Barakhir was unsound after the flight from Phellanthir, bearing not only Elrohir but the wounded Elladan.

Glorfindel glanced at the chestnut horse's head, high and alert, nostrils flared and eyeing Glorfindel balefully. 'Anguirel seems a strange choice,' he observed wryly

'He is restless,' agreed Elrohir, patting his neck. 'But he has a stout heart and is full of energy. I have often ridden him when Barakhir is lame or unsound. He is a strong beast and brave.'

Glorfindel smiled. 'All of that is true,' he said and stroked Anguirel's nose. The chestnut horse laid its ears back and wrinkled his lips at Glorfindel threateningly. 'He is one of Erestor's stock I think, from the same dam as the aptly named Niphredil.' Indeed it had the same baleful stare and Glorfindel hoped it was more reliable at least.

Tindómion joined them. 'Anyway, I for one think it was well done, and I am glad you have reconciled your differences,' he said as if he were continuing a conversation and Elrohir stiffened. Glorfindel glanced at him, wondering of whom they spoke.

'I did not go as far as that. I merely said that Elrond had chosen well in him,' Elrohir said tersely. 'And he has. The Hobbits are not afraid of him as they are some of us. And Aragorn trusts him.' He spoke as if it were difficult to get the words out.

Ah, thought Glorfindel. They speak of Legolas, for he had approached Elrohir just as they departed. At first Glorfindel had thought Elrohir would spurn Legolas, but whatever he said seemed to have been accepted by Elrohir and at least they had parted it seemed, with some sort of understanding.

'Indeed. And the dwarf-lord, Gimli Gloinsson speaks well of him,' Tindómion said, 'and the Man from Gondor, Boromir, who is as distrustful of Elves as any Man I have ever met, seems to like him.' Tindómion smiled although he was not looking at Elrohir but at the water of the stream which sparkled and glittered, as if he saw something other than the water. Like the face of whom they spoke. 'Elrond chose well, as you said.' He glanced up then. 'Do you not agree, Glorfindel?'

'You speak of Legolas? Yes. Elrond chose well.' Glorfindel twirled the reins of Asfaloth's bridle in one hand thoughtfully. 'It is the Hobbits who decided him I think. The youngest one, Peregrine Took, had a particular affinity with Legolas that Elrond thought would sustain them in their long journey.' He glanced obliquely at Elrohir, knowing that Elrohir had begged to be sent with Aragorn: it was their task, he had said, to accompany their brother on his greatest task. In all truth, Glorfindel himself had expected to go and he could not deny the smallest disappointment. But he knew as well that Elrond was right.

Asfaloth pawed at the cold water, sending a spray of water up against his boots, his thigh and he stepped back out of the way. 'They will already have crossed the Bruinen and be on their way,' he said quietly. 'May Elbereth guide them when all else is dark.'

They were silent now for a moment, each thinking of the Fellowship and their quiet, secret quest. Glorfindel thought first of Aragorn, and then his own friend, Gandalf, for this was his great task. It felt wrong to be riding in the other direction, no matter they were a diversion. It could only hold for so long and then the small company was on its own…to Lothlorien at least.

Lothlorien. It felt clouded there, beneath the great mallorn trees, as if something hid there...

No. He would not let himself doubt Galadriel's strength. If the Ring passed through that land, Gandalf would be there to guard both the Ring and the Lady from temptation.

Asfaloth raised his head, muzzle dripping with water. Suddenly the other horses raised their heads too and Anguirel circled nervously.

Instantly bows were strung, a scrape of metal as swords were drawn. Glorfindel listened.

Nothing...

...And then he heard it. A distant snuffling, panting breaths. He imagined the lolling tongue and knew.

Wargs. Orcs many though, maybe ten or twenty at most.

'Mount!' he cried. 'To battle!' He pulled on his helm and he felt the clasp of it against his cheekbones. Others did likewise and swung up onto their restless horses. 'We will not fly from this but meet them head on. There are but few and I would not let Orcs roam freely where they will!'

Glorfindel did not hesitate. He led the charge over the hill and the small group of orcs, scouts surely, suddenly looked up. There was a moment of shock as they they saw the band of horsed, armed Elves before a rain of arrows felled half of them and the wargs bolted, arrows in their thick hides, squealing and growling.

Elrohir drew ahead of Glorfindel, his dark-bladed sword drawn and his expression ferocious. Beside him, Tindómion with his mouth wide in a battle cry of hatred of all Orcs and their kin. But surprisingly, Galdor surged ahead. He was silent but his face so grim that Glorfindel was briefly reminded of Maedhros before whom Orcs would fall back. He saw the upturned faces of the Orcs but he felt no pity and Asfaloth ploughed into them like a wave. His sword flashed and blood spattered, an arc of red so deep it was almost black. There was a shout behind him and he turned his head in time to catch a glancing blow but he slashed downwards and then across and the Orc toppled from its mount. Asfaloth aimed a timely kick at the warg's head and it crashed to the ground stunned and Glorfindel cut its throat. The only way with a warg for they would keep on charging until they had no blood left in their veins.

The Mithlond archers were every bit as deadly as their Mirkwood kin. A shower of silver shot over his head and thudded against fur and hide. He saw Galdor charging into the fray, his blue cloak sweeping about him and his sword dripping and festooned with black and gory string and ribbons of Orc guts. His face was smudged with blood.

A heavy Orc sabre crashed against Glorfindel's shield and he had to turn back to the battle. A huge unmounted Uruk, white-skinned and marked with slashes across his chest and face, bared its teeth. Its eyes were small and pale and utterly alien. The Uruk pulled back and turned agiley, bringing its sabre back around and aiming at Asfaloth's legs. Glorfindel threw himself from the horse's back and leapt before him, thrusting his sword up to meet and deflect the sabre and as he did, he swung his right leg out to sweep the Uruk's legs from under it but it anticipated his move and sprang back, baring its sharp teeth. But Asfaloth had veered left and now drew level with the Uruk, he suddenly snaked out and caught the Uruk's arm between his strong teeth and ground his jaw. There was a horrible crunch and the Uruk weaved about in agony as it brought its free arm up to slash at the horse, but Glorfindel was there and before the Uruk could reach Asfaloth with its sabre, Glorfindel has struck at its arm with his own sword. A spurt of deep red blood spattered over his face and the Uruk howled in pain. It tried to tear its arm free from Asfaloth but the horse kept his teeth clamped down and shook the Uruk. It crashed to its knees and Glorfindel slashed at its throat. It clasped its neck with its free hand, gurgling as blood rushed into its throat and gushed out over its hand.

Suddenly the brief battle was over. The clang of swords dimmed and a warg whimpered and snarled. Then was suddenly silent.

The Uruk had collapsed and Asfaloth let go, shaking his head and throwing his front hoofs out. The Uruk bent over, cradling its arm and clutching at its throat. It made a horrible gurgling sound.

Elrohir was suddenly there and his hand caught the Uruk's pale head, pulled it back. Aícanaro rested against the Uruk's neck but its blood pumped out over its hand and its small beady eyes were hard and fierce.

'Here, a lance,' Tindómion thrust an Orcish spear into Elrohir's hand and Glorfindel braced himself for what was to come.

'You think I care what you do!' the Uruk snarled. 'When my brothers come they will cut your heart from your chest and drink your blood.'

Tindómion struck it with the hilt of his sword and it would have fallen forwards had Elrohir not had it by its hair.

But Elrohir paused. He looked down at the spear as if he did not quite know what was expected.

'Do you wish me to hold the brute?' Tindómion asked and reached out to grasp the Uruk. But Elrohir suddenly seemed to come to himself. He shook his head and frowned. He looked at Tindómion and then Glorfindel and it seemed to Glorfindel that Elrohir's grey eyes cleared for a moment and quite suddenly he slashed dark Aícanaro through the Uruk's neck and then shoved the corpse away from him. The corpse twitched and the head rolled a little away, its mouth gibbered as if it still lived for a few moments and then was still. Elrohir leaned down and grasped the head by its hair and stuck it on the end of a lace and drove the hilt into the ground. The Orc's jaw suddenly dropped open and its tongue lolled out.

Elrohir turned and stalked away, Tindómion staring after him.

Glorfindel watched from the corner of his eye and busied himself with Asfaloth, wiping clean the horse's flanks and legs, and praising him softly. Elrohir stooped and picked up his bow where he had abandoned it when the arrows ran out and then, like the archers of Mithlond, he went about his business retrieving arrows, checking them for broken heads and wiping those he could reuse clean and stowing them in his quiver. Tindómion came to stand beside Glorifndel and cast him a puzzled glance.

'Strange indeed when the Son of Thunder leaves no sign that he has passed by this way,' he observed but he sounded more troubled than Glorfindel expected.

'Perhaps we should have stopped him sooner,' Glorfindel said quietly. 'We have become accustomed to cruelty.'

Tindómion stepped in front of him, his silver-grey eyes fiery. 'You think it cruel? You have seen what Orcs do, Glorfindel. You have seen the bones of children on their campfires! You have seen the bodies of beasts they have hunted and killed for sport!' He lowered his voice dangerously. 'You saw Celebrían. How can you question us?' He was furious as Glorfindel had rarely seen him. But Feänorians were as fickle as the wind, he thought, and mercurial. Tindómion was no exception.

'We are not Orcs,' he said calmly. 'And we have behaved as they.' He did not say that it was the actions of a Woodelf and Dwarf that had changed things, that blistering confrontation between Elrohir and Legolas had obviously done something to Elrohir too and Glorfindel wondered what it was that had touched Elrohir so that now he too saw the cruelty as unnecessary. But Tindómion simply spun on is heel and strode away amongst the horses, his back ramrod straight and the air bristling with his fury.

'Elbereth preserve me from the line of Finwë,' Glorfindel murmured with a sigh.

'They have ever brought trouble, trailing it behind them like crows.' Galdor was behind him and cleaning his own sword. He just have heard everything, Glorfindel realised with chagrin. But Galdor's tone was more amused than bitter and Glorfindel saw a faint smile line the Elf's mouth.

Galdor glanced up at Glorfindel's perusal. 'I knew Tindómion in Mithlond while he lived there. Not well, but enough.' He explained briefly and then focused again on his sword.

Glorfindel sighed and leaned on his sword.

'The famous Feänorian spirit is not unknown to me either,' Galdor continued. He drew out his whetstone and drew it lightly down the edge of the blade. 'It made him friends as well as enemies.'

'And which are you?'

Galdor smiled and said nothing, but attended his sword and Glorfindel could see he wasted his time in any more discussion. He returned to Asfaloth and rubbed his ears, scratched his poll absently. It was to allow a short rest that they withdrew a short distance to bind wounds, repair weapons and collect arrows that he paused but in truth he was anxious. A small knot tightened in his belly. Amon Sûl was still leagues distant and he did not want the Nazgûl to come upon them in the open lands of Rhudaur.

'Do we ride on?' a voice asked. Elrohir. 'I would counsel it if I were asked,' he said although it was not meek it was offered without demand. 'It is about 200 miles as the crow flies from Rivendell to Amon Sûl and we still have some way to go.' He looked beyond their camp, as if he could measure the distance. 'Maybe two marches at best.'

'Indeed night is not far off.' Glorfindel said quietly and he glanced about their makeshift camp; it was indefensible here and they had rested for two hours. Enough time, he thought.

Elrohir followed his gaze.

'Shall I get them up?' he asked and this time Glorfindel nodded. 'Do we burn the carcasses or leave them?'

'Leave them,' Glorfindel said. 'It offends me to do so but we cannot give it the time. Maybe on the way home…'

He watched Elrohir move amongst the men, speaking quietly, looking down to encourage a wounded man who held his arm even though it had been bandaged. This was where they missed Elladan, for he gave comfort as well as healing and that was not Elrohir's gift. Elrohir nodded at the man and did not smile or sit with him as Elladan would have. Yet in his own way he inspired them for the man struggled to his feet, smiling slightly and waving his good arm as if demonstrating how able he was. Saeldir was nearby and slid an appraising look at him, then slapped his on his good shoulder and steered him towards his horse, cupped his hands to give the man a leg up.

The rest of the company was mounting and within a few minutes had wheeled about and were already clattering along the old road. It seemed the rest after the skirmish had done everyone good and they made good progress at a quick speed. Nothing else stopped them and they rode until it was too dark to canter or even trot. For a while they walked on, giving the horses their heads so they stretched out until it was too dark even for that.

 

0o0o

 

They passed the night uneasily, aware of shadows that slunk between the trees just too far away to see, to aim an unlikely arrow and none were keen to waste a shot.

'Wargs,' Tindómion murmured on return from his patrol. 'They keep to the trees and are upsetting the horses.'

'Too many to just be survivors of the skirmish,' Elrohir said joining them. 'They seek to keep us wakeful, to tire us tonight. They will attack tomorrow.'

Glorfindel nodded. 'I agree. These are not simply a pack of wargs out hunting and who happen to be in our path. Sauron has guessed our plan. He will be elated that the Ring has left Imladris, and furious that we are taking it to the Havens. Desperate. ' He threw a stick on the low fire for they were not hiding. This was the plan. 'It is working.'

 

0o0o

 

All through the following day they were aware of the slinking grey shadows that followed, that trotted alongside just out of sight, out of bowshot and Glorfindel forbade anyone to go beyond the tight bounds of the company for he knew that the Wargs would cut a horse off, drive it panicked and bolting through the forest where they could pick off a lone rider and horse and keep pursuit at bay until they had made their kill. He would not risk losing one beast or rider for they neared their destination. And he knew that their best hope was to reach Amon Sûl and to make their stand there.

He glanced across at Tindómion, at Galdor and Elrohir. Saeldir nodded unspoken acquiesence and they did not stop to rest though the horses were tired.

At last the broken look out tower of Amon Sûl rose into view. It was so alike to its sister, Phellanthir that Glorfindel felt cold. The tiny hairs down his spine rose on end at the memory, how strange it was to see and feel Erestor's dreams and distant past, the terrible thunder of the Balrog pounding on the Glass, the cold shadow of the Nazgûl…its devouring of Rhawion and Rhawion's sacrifice to save Glorfindel himself.

He bowed his head and scrutinised his hands that held Asfaloth's reins so lightly. There was a scar on the left from the battle in the Tower, other than that you would think him unscathed…But he was not. He let Asfaloth have his head whilst he thought of Rhawion, of the Nazgûl. He remembered Maedhros too, of the scattered silver-blue stars that drifted away in the empty cold Dark, lost and grieving. Was that Rhawion's fate too? Or worse? That there was simply nothing left of him anywhere within the bounds of Arda?

He was still aware of the slinking grey shadows in the trees that followed them, snouts turned towards them, scenting the horses' fear. Now and again a low howl went up, a long desolate sound that seemed to dissolve in the biting cold air. It unsettled horse and Elf equally.

'Do we ride on or rest?' a voice asked quietly at his side. Galdor's face was hard and unflinching. 'My men are restless. These Wargs unsettle the horses.'

'We must not stop,' replied Glorfindel. 'They will attack as soon as we set foot on the earth.'

'Very well. But this is taking too long. The tension is too great for all.'

Glorfindel turned his face towards Galdor. 'Then you have a suggestion?'

'My experience is that Wargs scout ahead for Orcs. There are surely a band of Orcs following us and most likely catching up given our pace. The Wargs will try to slow us down. We will let them. But we must suddenly break into two parties. One group break ahead quickly as if they were riding hard to Amon Sûl, and the other group hold back so we split the Wargs. The first group then cut back to attack from the fore whilst the second group have the rear. We will confuse the Wargs and trap them between us. If the Wargs split, they will be easier to despatch.' He looked fierce and urgent and though Glorfindel did not like the idea of trapping the Wargs between them, he admitted the tactic had been used before and with success. 'Most importantly, we will be able to identify the leader and despatch her more easily. With their leader gone, the pack will have to disperse.'

Glorfindel nodded. That was indeed a good tactic and Galdor was right; to rid them of the pack leader would mean temporary delay at least before the Wargs were ready to attack again. It would delay the Orcs too. 'Tindómion!' he called over his shoulder. Then he turned back to Galdor. 'Tell your men. They must be ready to launch an arrow attack and then pursue. We will pick off most of the pack from the rear before they realise we have not all followed.'

Swiftly, Tindómion was at his side.

'Take ten of the company and gather. When I give the signal, break ahead as if the whole company intends to charge. The Wargs will break cover and follow, and I will hold back and come upon them from the rear. It will be hard to turn and face them,' he cautioned. 'But you must, and then turn upon them. Take whom you will.'

Tindómion looked quickly around at the concerned, fixed faces of the Elves who rode with them. 'Very well, my lord,' he said briskly. 'Elrohir! Saeldir!' he called. 'Choose four men each who you would trust to hold firm of heart and steady of will,' he said. 'On my signal we will ride ahead.' There was an excited murmur of approval from Saeldir. It was so much easier to act than just ride slowly all the while expecting attack. Tindómion gave Elrohir and Saeldir a brilliant smile and Glorfindel thought how Feänorian he looked right now. 'We will have to drive the horses hard.'

Elrohir nodded once and immediately wound Anguirel between the horses, picking out a number of Elves from Imladris and riding with them for a little while explaining quietly, confidently. There was a murmur of concern and excitement, anticipation of battle and Glorfindel felt the familiar thrum in his blood and flutter in his heart.

They rode on, close-knit and tight but let the horses slow a little, giving the impression that they were tired, more so than they really were. The grey shadows drew closer, believing their ruse, and now and again, Glorfindel saw the blur of the outline of a Warg, close but not quite close enough as they ran between the trees and none dared waste an arrow they could not retrieve. Not yet.

There was a soft thud of hooves and susurration of cloaks, a jingle of harness and the glint of moonlight upon silver bits and stirrups. Grey shadows ran alongside, a powerful lope. Behind them, Glorfindel imagined the whoosh of powerful reptilian wings beating down upon the air. A wolf howled thinly nearby but Glorfindel imagined he heard from far away, the answering wail of the Nazgul.

Tindómion's men were bunched now at the vanguard of their band. Their faces grim but alight with the call to arms, to battle. One horse pranced eagerly and shook his heads as if he wanted to throw off the bit and bridle and run, though the Wargs had moved up and were faster, looping in and out of the trees as if they sensed weakness, slavered over the anticipated feast.

Tindómion turned his face towards Glorfindel, the silver-grey eyes alight with expectation and for a moment, Glorfindel saw another face, even fairer and framed with red hair like flames. He shook himself free of the cobwebs of memory and fastened his eyes upon Tindómion's expectant face.

'Go,' he whispered and suddenly Tindómion was off, his men flying after him. Their horses flattened into a gallop, their hooves flying over the smooth turf and from the trees broke the grey shadows, wargs, unearthly howling as they streamed after Tindómion.

Glorfindel had thrown up his hand to stem the charge that wanted to follow, seconds lengthened and seemed endless as he watched the pack pour from the cover of the trees and only when he was sure the pack was committed to pursuit did he let his hand fall and immediately Galdor's archers let fly their silver-headed arrows and there were yelps and screams and the long, muscular wargs began to fall.

Glorfindel could see the outriders of the pack pause and glance to the side as they saw their brothers and sisters fall and their own feet hesitated.

'Charge!' he shouted and was surrounded by a sea of tossing, foaming manes, of glinting silver and bronze gleaming in the pale winter light.

The pack of wargs was no match now that they were in the open and arrows and spears flew through the air. A few of the wargs turned, spitting and cursing and launched themselves at the elves, their weight punched into the horses and all fell together, a mass of fur and hooves and claws and teeth. Glorfindel urged Asfaloth forwards and plunged his sword through a thick hide as Asfaloth pounded a skull with his heavy hooves and bit at the Warg's face with his strong teeth. The Warg snarled and lashed at Asfaloth's hide as Glorfindel drove his sword hard into its muscular, lithe flank. He felt a splash of hot blood on his own skin and Asfaloth whirled about and smashed his hind feet against the Warg's skull. It yelped and fell silent.

Glorfindel saw that Galdor had hefted a spear and was looking towards a huge silver she-Warg. She turned and snarled at him, her fangs gleaming in the moonlight. Suddenly she sprang forwards and Galdor hurled the spear with all his might but even that was not enough to stop the Warg and she crashed into him and his horse so that all went down in a flurry of fur and snarling, gnashing teeth. Glorfindel was not the only Elf to surge forward to his side and slash down through the thick hide, cut through the muscular body and pierce the Warg with many wounds. She turned and lashed at them snarling and cursing, lunging forwards with claws outstretched and ripping into anything in her way. Astonishingly, Galdor fought his way to his feet and with a powerful slash of his sword, he cut the Warg's throat and it collapsed, gurgling and spluttering in its own blood. Galdor's horse struggled to its feet and stood with its head hanging low and miserable, holding one foreleg slightly off the ground.

It quickly fell silent now and Glorfindel looked about him, gauging any injuries and looking for Wargs that still lived and feigned death to kill later. Galdor was holding his shoulder and there was blood on his cloak. He stood beside the horse, stroking its trembling flanks and whispering softly to his horse and Glorfindel grimaced. This was no place for a wounded horse.

There were about twenty Wargs, dead or panting in the last throes of life but the rest of the pack had fled the moment their leader was gone. A horrid yelping came from his left somewhere and he watched one of Galdor's men lean over and cut the Warg's throat. He wanted to shout out to beware but it was caught in his throat as the Warg's head suddenly reared up and bit the man in the throat. Immediately Glorfindel hurled his sword at the Warg but its jaws had fastened at the men's throat and the beast was tossing its head from side to side, the man caught in its grip like a rag doll. His sword plunged into the Warg's shoulder and it leapt to one side but did not let go. A spear shot through the air and slammed into the beast's side where juddered next to Glorfindel's sword. The Warg toppled slowly and the man fell to the ground, clutching his throat soaked with blood. Though others immediately surrounded him, holding him, trying to staunch the terrible wound, Glorfindel knew he was as good as dead already.

'We cannot linger,' he said to Galdor, who was white-faced and tense. In his hand was a glove drenched in blood. Glorfindel wondered briefly if it was Galdor's own blood. 'We must reach Amon-Sûl before the Nazgûl. If they catch us out here, we have no protection.'

Galdor nodded. 'I know.' He glanced towards the dead man. 'It is hard to leave without a cairn over him but we will come back this way and honour him.'

Glorfindel nodded. He glanced uneasily over to the injured horse.

Galdor did not meet his eyes. 'We will return this way,' he said more firmly. 'Our horses are our friends and Belan was a gift from Cirdan. He has been with me for many years. I will set a warding spell over him. Orcs and Nazgûl do not hunt a horse.'

In truth Glorfindel was relieved for it is not easy to kill a horse and he hoped that Galdor had enough power that it gave some shelter.

When they rode on, there was an elf who remained with the horse after all for he too was badly injured and both man and horse hid away amongst the rocks and Galdor wove his spell about those rocks and even Glorfindel could not see them afterwards.

The stars were bright and they saw the hard and broken outline of Amon-Sûl ahead of them. The horses' hooves were muffled now on the green sward but to Glorfindel it seemed like thunder that echoed the pounding of his heart for he felt the approach now of the Nazgûl. It seemed to him that in the wind was the beat of thin reptilian wings whumping, and the thin cry of an owl distorted into the wail of the Ringwraiths who devoured the souls of Men. And that had devoured Rhawion so his fëa was utterly lost. It seemed to him that whereas the Nazgûl had always been an enemy to be feared, to be hated, now, they were to be utterly dreaded. Fear was no longer their greatest weapon; the absolute loss of one's soul was suddenly very real and to an Elf, it meant no rebirth, no Gift such as Men had, even those whose souls were eaten. For an Elf, it meant not even the Eternal Dark as Maedhros had been banished. No. Worse. It was Unbeing. It was Undeath, Unlife. Nothing. The Nazgûl, pitya-angu, had unleashed something in them and for the first time in his long, long life, even more than he feared the Balrog, Glorfindel of Gondolin and Imladris was truly afraid.

o0oo

tbc


	19. Chapter 19

Beta: The truly fabulous and generous Anarithilen. (We should try and persuade her to pick up her pen again! Check out her wonderful stories her on ffnet)

Thanks to reviewers for kindly encouraging, freddie, ninui-ithil, LayneWolf, mcapps, Nako13yeh, Melusine, cheekybeak, Spiced Wine, Encairion, Naledi. As well as those who have favourited this or sent Kudos on Ao3.

Notes:

Tyelpo - shortened from Telperinquar (stem Telperinquár-) was Celebrimbor's Quenya father-name, meaning "Silver-fist"

astra: Quenya for part or divisions. In the sense it is used here it refers to particles. There is no way that the Palantir or Galadriel's Mirror could have been invented without deep understanding of physics and here Erestor and Elrond are discussing Celebrimbor's discussion with Maedhros of Quantum mechanics and the copper screen experiment. Nirmë is the word for physics, but obviously it would be different from our understanding- after all, elves are immortal. Imagine if Einstein had lived for thousands of years.

Annatar: of course was the name that Sauron went by when he deceived Celebrimbor into making the Rings of Power.

Reminder: Elwing inherited the stolen Silmaril from her father. She held it in Sirion and eventually the sons of Feänor demanded it. When she refused to hand it over, they attacked. The result was the third kinslaying and Elwing threw herself into the sea with the Silmaril rather than let Maglor and Maedhros have it. She left her twin boys behind however, Elros and Elrond, and they were then taken by the Fëanorians, first as possible hostages for the return of the Silmaril (IMO) and then who then grew to love them as their own.

Chapter 16: Secrets

Erestor stood at the long windows of his study, watching the storm clouds gather over the mountains. He had been at Elladan's side for hours and hours, only briefly tearing himself away to bid farewell to Glorfindel. He had sat and watched Elladan's pale, wraith-like face, with the pooling of his blood beneath his white skin showing like bruises. And Elrond beside him. They had watched together until finally Elladan had shifted and let out a deep sigh…And his eyelids had fluttered open.

Grey eyes, clear as water, had looked up at them with muddled astonishment but it was Elladan who had looked out, not some wraith. And Erestor nearly choked with relief. He felt as if he had been carrying a heavy load of stones over his shoulders and someone had just told him to put them down. There were tears of course, unashamed and glad and Arwen had been summoned and they had clung together in joyful relief. And Elladan had stared at him, smiled wanly and whispered his name. His name.

Erestor found himself pressing his hand against his heart with unaccustomed tears pricking at his eyes. Elladan's hand had reached for him and that had made his heart leap in his chest and pound furiously. But he suppressed it with a ruthlessness he usually only kept for Orcs and Wargs. He would not let hope flicker, and he would not give Elladan any encouragement either; he was a wicked old Feänorian, old friend of Elladan's own father, his senior by Ages. And completely unsuitable for anything but a guardian.

So now, although the elation remained, Erestor watched the darkness descending over the Valley, and forced himself to think instead upon other matters; beyond the walls of Imladris, terrible danger that pursued his friends, Glorfindel in one direction, and Gandalf in the other.

Surely Glorfindel had reached Amon Sûl? It had been days since they rode out and bar accidents, mishaps…attack, they should be there and ranged upon the heights of the old watchtower. He wondered if Glorfindel feared anything for he had faced Angmar in his own fortress long ago, and had not slain that restless evil. He could not.

No man shall slay thee.

Glorfindel's own prophesy lingered now like the ring of a bell. No man. Then what? A woman? Perhaps they should have sent some with the men, thought Erestor bitterly for the women had fought when Himring was falling, they had fought when fleeing from Ost-in-Edhil, when Beleriand fell…

He shivered. The cold of winter bit down now and he turned away, but it was never as cold as Himring. Snow fell slowly on Himring. Endlessly. Bitter winds swirled the flakes and they could barely see the gates of the fortress. There the winter frosted the walls inside as well as out and cracked stone. Maedhros used to stand on the high walls of the fortress glaring at Thangorodrim as if his gaze alone would break the mountains apart. When Erestor ran out into the snow and threw the silver-grey wolf fur over his shoulders, Maedhros barely noticed.

…It was worse in Amon Ereb.

Restless ghosts murmured in the stones of that last stronghold; Caranthir, Curufin, Celegorm. Ambarussa, whom they buried within those walls. But even as Maedhros stood over that sad mound of stones, all knew that the only ghost he saw was Fingon. He whispered Fingon' name into the cracks of the walls, let the wind take the name from his mouth and blow it into the air, followed him unseen along the cracked and ruined walls.

His despair was unconquerable.

Maglor gave up trying to kindle his last brother's interest in anything and only the Oath remained to heat his blood and bones. But there was no Fingon to speak reason, to give him hope and then Elwing gave her final word that she would never give over the Silmaril for it was precious to her beyond all other jewels, beyond life itself.

Beyond even her own sons it seemed.

They snatched the boys to bargain with Eärendil for the Silmaril supposedly set upon his brow, although Maedhros sneered at the very idea and said the Valar would keep it close, would lock it away. But they took the abandoned children anyway. When it came to pass that the danger was so great that they could no longer hold even Amon Ereb, they wrung that last promise from Erestor that he would take the boys to Lindon and Gil-Galad. In doing so, they gave up all hope of bargaining with Eärendil the Silmaril for his sons. For by that time, those two beloved children had wound their songs about the hearts of Feänor's last remaining sons and they were as their own children, children they never had. Or at least, Erestor thought sadly, in Maglor's case, that he never knew he had. For he had not known of Tindómion's birth, did not know that he even existed.

Erestor came back to himself before he lost himself in memory, and sighed. Then he reached for a wine goblet and poured rich red wine from the glass decanter that stood on his desk amongst the glass bottles of coloured inks and carefully stacked scrolls. He threw his head back and gulped it, barely tasted it. A waste, he told himself and did not care. He had a task to accomplish now and could no longer delay.

The remaining child, Elrond, must know what he and Glorfindel had found in Phellanthir. The Ring was beyond Elrond's reach now and could not tempt him to take it, to ride hard to the old watchtower and crack open the door to the Dark, release his foster father whom he loved more than his own blood.

It was time.

Elrond was in the forges, unusually but fittingly, and it was not long before he noticed Erestor standing in the fiery glow amid the clang of steel upon steel and the hiss of steam. A burst of fire came from the long thin tubes of oil in which the blades were quenched. Elrond glanced over at one of the apprentices and said something. The apprentice shifted his stance so that he angled the hammer slightly more acutely and then lifting his hammer, he tapped more gently at the hot metal. Elrond nodded approvingly and pulling off the heavy leather gauntlets, he approached Erestor, smiling wryly.

'I need to work,' he said simply and Erestor nodded for they shared the Noldor love of craft and though Elrond was a healer first, he was a warrior too. 'Are you joining me?' he asked with a slight smile.

Erestor returned the smile and shook his head. 'No. There is something I need to discuss with you and it will wait no longer.'

Elrond untied his leather apron and hung it over the hooks and then quickly washed his hands. Then he bent down to heave off his forge boots, which he dropped onto the stone floor under a shelf full of boots and shoes. He grinned at Erestor as he scooped up his own more familiar light leather boots from the shelf above and pulled them on. 'Let us walk a little then,' he invited. 'Perhaps to the Asgar-Lanthir.'

The smiths nodded at both Elrond and Erestor as they passed, and suddenly they were out of the hot, metal heat of the forge and into the cold night air. There was a smudge of soot on Elrond's face and Erestor smiled, lifting his hand with old familiarity to rub it off with his finger.

"You look like you were enjoying yourself,' he observed.

'I needed something physical after all the waiting, the watching over Elladan.' Elrond sighed and looked suddenly tired. Guilt gnawed at Erestor and he rubbed his own eyes.

'Now that Ash Nazg has gone, we feel a weight is gone from us,' Elrond said absently as if it had happened long ago. 'I had not realised how it oppressed us until now.'

Even after all these years it still unnerved Erestor that Elrond spoke of himself and Vilya as 'we' in this way. He walked silently beside Elrond who was also absorbed in his own thoughts, perhaps communing with Vilya as they walked through the gardens of Imladris. Erestor thought about the small Hobbit, Frodo Baggins and that heaviest of burdens; more than the Master of Imladris, Herald of Gil-Galad and descendant of the High Kings of the Noldor could bear. More than Glorfindel of Gondolin could bear. More than a wicked old Feänorian could bear certainly, he admitted to himself wryly. The memories of three nights ago lingered, the assault upon Vilya that had spurred the Fellowship to depart and Glorfindel to make his reckless flight to Amon Sûl.

'When there is nothing else useful to be done, make swords, arrows, spears,' he said leaning towards Elrond slightly, repeating Maglor's oft said phrase. 'Or practise.'

Elrond smiled briefly in acknowledgment and they walked along the elegant paths that turned and curved between the rose beds. Down wide stone steps and off a narrower path they went, drawing away from the House and up into the higher gardens that lined the Valley below the greatest of the waterfalls, the Asgar-Lanthir. Spray misted the air and Erestor breathed in the scents of mountain thyme that was crushed underfoot where they walked and the cold Winter-mint that grew in the Valley even now.

'I must tell you now what we found in Phellanthir,' he began and heard Elrond's sudden intake of breath. 'You must prepare yourself for this, Elrond. It is not easy to hear.' But he could not help himself and knew his voice trembled a little with excitement.

'I may spare you a little,' Elrond said softly though he did not halt or look at Erestor. Instead he kept his eyes upon the foaming rush of white water ahead of them, that spilled and poured from above and plunged below into the river. 'Elladan spoke much in his fever, and through Vilya during the healing, I saw something of what passed…' he explained. 'I saw the Nazgûl. I saw, felt how my son pushed you aside.' Elrond stopped and put his hand on Erestor's sleeve. 'It was his choice, my friend and I see how it grieves you still.'

Erestor could not speak for a moment; this was not what he had planned, prepared for. It was not what he had so carefully rehearsed over the days and nights since Glorfindel had departed. It was Elrond's forgiveness that hurt.

'Elladan made his choice, Erestor, for the love he bears you. I know it was not through lack of care on your part.' Elrond gently pulled Erestor round to face him though Erestor turned his face away and could not look at him.

'Never that. Through all these years,' Elrond continued, so gently, so lovingly. 'Through all these Ages of Men you have cared for me, for my children…For…' He faltered. Even now after so long, after so much tragedy, he could not speak his brother's name. Instead he added carefully, knowing that he trod delicately himself, 'Even as you were sworn. Even as you did my father's bidding though it grieved you to leave his side.'

There. It was said. And Erestor found himself drawing a breath of cold air and the fluttering in his belly of old pain and anxiety. No. I do not want to remember how he sent me from his side at that last moment. Do not speak of this.

Elrond looked at him patiently, firmly. Indeed I feel we must. For what has happened. For what is happening. Elrond pushed the words into his head, pushed past his resistance.

'What have you seen?' Erestor demanded aloud.

'I have seen my father's name writ large in your thoughts.' Elrond's voice was impossibly kind. Of course he meant Maedhros for neither Elrond, nor Elros when he lived, ever spoke of Eärendil as their father. They paced slowly, as if they spoke of nothing more than the weather, though Erestor's heart thumped in his chest.

'I have seen his ghost linger in your dreams and in all your doings,' Elrond said quietly, 'You are thinking of him, remembering. It is as if I stand there myself with you and watch as you go about your work for him.' Elrond's grey eyes were quietly insistent, questioning. 'Through your eyes I see Himring as clearly as I see my own House.' He spread his hand towards the Hall of Fire, the Commanders' Quarters where Glorfindel and his own sons dwelt. 'I have dreamed the Nírnaeth Arnoediad, how you pulled the banner from Fingon's body, how you found a horse, and joined a group of survivors, found my fathers…'

Erestor faltered then and closed his eyes, but Elrond did not relent. 'I know the love you bore him. And it is renewed. As if he had just turned the stair, just closed the door…' Elrond came round to face him, but too close so Erestor felt the warmth of his breath. 'I have seen the copper brightness of his hair… And Vilya…' He paused, and Erestor slipped his eyes open to see that Elrond was no longer looking at him, but just past Erestor's own shoulder. As if he saw something that Erestor could not see. 'Vilya whispers that he…they are close….If I but look I will see them… And I look, but they are just beyond my sight. If I but knew where to look, I might just catch their shadow…'

His eyes were glazed with Sight and Erestor knew that he was deep in his gift, images of what was past, what was now and what was yet to come flickering, surging, washing before him, one coming sharply into focus and others blurred and indistinct. Elrond's face was turned towards Erestor but still his grey eyes were faraway.

'There is a Glass through which I see but darkly. And then face to face I walk in shadow, and one whom I love and loves me walks beside me. But he comes from the shadow of death and I cannot reach him. I cannot see...He reaches out to me and I seem to touch...ah, almost...so close...and then...all dissolves in fire. Shadow, and flame. My skin burns...blood...boils...'

He shuddered and his gaze dropped to the damp grass, his hands shook.

Erestor gasped. It was the Mirror that Elrond saw, and the Balrog; he had seen how Erestor himself had sunk his hands into the Mirror and almost, almost touched Maedhros' spirit.

Erestor blinked slowly and his eyes rested upon the spectacular magnificence of the waterfall, the long, long fall of water, white as it surged and pounded over the high ledge and plunged past him, past the hanging Valley of Imladris and into the churning pool far below.

Elrond shivered and his head bowed and Erestor came to himself. With one hand firmly on Elrond's shoulder, he unclasped his own cloak and then swung it over Elrond's shoulders, gently pushed him down onto a wide stone bench that marked the viewing point.

'Sit,' he said firmly and rummaged in the pocket of his tunic for the miruvor he had brought with him, though he had not expected to use it so soon. 'Drink.'

Elrond obeyed him out of long custom and sipped a little of the cordial. Erestor took a swig himself and wiped his mouth on his sleeve. He held out the bottle once again and Elrond, his eyes still distant and unfocused, waved his hand at Erestor dismissively.

Leaning forwards slightly, Elrond rested his elbows on his thighs and looked down at the frozen ground between his feet. 'That is how it has been now, Erestor,' he said in a low voice. 'Every night since Aragorn returned, for that must have been near the time you arrived in Phellanthir. I have seen things. Himring. Amon Ereb...Nargothrond...Doriath.' He breathed deeply like his chest was too tight. 'At first I did not know what I saw. But I knew it would be you who would tell me. And that you were in great danger. And then, when I felt Rhawion go from the world, I thought it was you who were gone. Or my sons.' He bowed his head. 'To my shame, when I knew it was Rhawion who had gone from the world, I felt relief before I felt horror.'

Erestor sat beside him and folded his arms over his chest, considering the white water that streamed before them, and beyond the opposite cliff was lined with black pine trees that looked miniature at this distance. 'It is not to be wondered at, Elrond. You were always too hard on yourself.' He glanced down at his companion's bent head affectionately. 'You would blame yourself for the Marring of Arda if you could,' he said gently.

And then he took a breath. He could no longer postpone the telling of it all.

Of course Rhawion's end was not why they were here now. It was the rest of the story, the Glass, the Balrog...Maedhros, that needed telling. Erestor sighed and shook his head slightly. 'It all comes back to this in the end, you know,' he said softly. 'What I must tell you now is both great and terrible.'

Beside him, Elrond was very still and then Erestor pushed himself to sit upright and leaned back against the bench, looking up at the sky.

'You already know that Celebrimbor was experimenting with Nirmë,' he began. 'He had discovered, invented...rediscovered perhaps? something he called Tumnalómë. It is similar to the Palantri.'

Elrond glanced Erestor with a slight smile. 'He was always interested in the Palantri. I remember how he would examine them, how he would touch one so it activated and then look at it from every angle. I believe he would have taken it apart had he been able.' They both smiled. 'Then he began experimenting with glass and copper. He and Maedhros talked about it…I remember one evening at supper in Amon Ereb. ' He glanced at Erestor. 'You were there.'

Erestor nodded. 'I remember. It was the Shortest Day,' he murmured quietly; it had been a rare time of peace, warmth and plenty for the last of the House of Feänor. The hunt had been good and Maglor had sung them all into reminiscence. Celebrimbor had stayed with them but only briefly; Maedhros would never let him stay for long, bidding him cut his ties with his family and preserve himself. Erestor found himself slipping into the old familiar names long forgotten by all but he and Elrond. 'Tyelpo was talking about how astra behave.' He shrugged. 'I wish I had listened more but he and my lord, your father, had moved beyond my little knowledge long before then.'

'Yes.' Elrond smiled in nostalgia. 'They had been experimenting with prisms. Tyelpo wrote to him after about how light split and how it could be different depending on how you treated the astra….I remember being excited and wanting to see for myself but of course, we could not travel at that time. It would have been too dangerous.'

What he meant by dangerous, was that Cirdan's people were still looking for him and Elros and they may well have been kidnapped. Indeed kidnapping it would have been in both Elros' and Elrond's view for by that time both called Maglor and Maedhros father and they had grown closer than blood.

This was going to be hard, Erestor knew. It was why he and Glorfindel had decided that they would wait until Ash Nazg was beyond the Valley, beyond Elrond's power.

'I must tell you first what happened before we went into the Tower. It will help you to understand what happened later,' Erestor said slowly. 'As we approached the Tower, strange things happened to us...It was as you described a moment ago, what you have seen through your gift. As you remembered my surviving the Nírnaeth Arnoediad, I knew Glorfindel's memories as if they were my own. I remembered the Balrog upon the Cristhorn as if it were I who stood against him, yet I have not the gift. I remembered falling from fire into snow.' He paused, for even now the memory was sharp and he thought about how his heart had pounded in his chest, how his limbs had felt the surge of adrenalin and he had raised his hands clasping the sword…how drops of ichor burned and steamed and hissed as they dripped from the demon into the snow. He remembered the light in Idril's hair...'I knew how it had been for Glorfindel. And he saw Himring as I had seen it.'

'He saw your memories also?' asked Elrond and lifted an eyebrow wryly. 'I hope he was not too shocked.'

Erestor grinned. 'A little perhaps. Not as much as he should have been.' He glanced obliquely at Elrond. 'You seem less surprised than I expected.'

'I was in Eregion for a while, after Annatar had left,' Elrond said slowly, thinking.'Tyelpo came to Lindon. He was afraid of what Annatar really was. He came to warn us and Gil sent me back with him to learn what I could that might help us.'

Erestor glanced at him in surprise.

Elrond said. "It was during that time when you were in Númenor as Gil's emissary,' he explained. 'I went back to Eregion with Tyelpo because he wanted someone that Tyelpo would trust.'

'There were wonders enough in Ost-in-Edhil,' Elrond continued. 'But he insisted we went to Phellanthir too and I was reluctant at first, thinking it his lesser city and there were so many treasures in Ost-in-Edhil. But he wanted to show me the Öromardé.' He glanced at Erestor. 'You know how he was when he really wanted you to do something with him.'

Erestor looked down at his hands briefly, picked at his cuticles. It hurt to remember.

'When we got there, it was clear it was a secret place. Or a guarded place at least. It was wondrous. There were the mirrors that lined the walls and the light split, like Tyelpo had talked about with Maedhros...It was like walking through rainbows.' Elrond's face was soft with remembered wonder. 'I think that is why he wanted me to see it. But that was not all. It was very strange. Those mirrors lining the walls did not only spilt the light, Erestor. They were like Galadriel's Mirror in some ways. In them, he cast memories upon the glass and they reflected them back- as if I were standing there in the same room. He showed me things that he had seen first hand and he sought to comfort me.' Elrond paused and then said quietly. 'He knew how I grieved.'

Yes, by that time, Elrond had lost Elros too of course, thought Erestor, as well as Maedhros. And of Maglor there had been no sign.

'Of course that is all gone now,' Elrond said. 'They were all gone, I was told, smashed by Sauron's minions.'

'There is one mirror still there,' said Erestor slowly. 'Still intact.'

Elrond pressed a finger against his lips thoughtfully, in a gesture learned from Maglor. 'It is a wonder that it remains.' Then he said, 'There was something more that Tyelpo was working on.' He was thoughtful. 'I have always thought it was some additional power for the Three Rings...But perhaps it was not.' He turned towards Erestor, his eyes deep, but he did not see Erestor. He was looking inward, at memories and Erestor felt Vilya's quickening and knew there was something trembling on the edges. 'Sauron destroyed Ost-in-Edhil so completely and did not raze Phellanthir as he did Ost-in-Edhil, though he slaughtered every soul left there. I always felt there was something that Sauron knew and we did not.'

Ost-in-Edhil. The bloody banner, the twitching of limbs...Erestor could not avoid it now and shoved himself to his feet and took two strides away. Elrond sat in silence, regarded him.

It was only then that Erestor recalled that Elrond had ridden with Glorfindel to Celebrimbor's aid...He would remember the burned towers, the smoke and screaming. A city utterly destroyed. Celebrimbor tortured and hoisted on a lance. He wondered if Elrond had seen the grotesque trophy. Then he glanced down and saw how Elrond's hands gripped the edge of the stone bench and knew that he had.

They were both silent for a moment. Behind them voices rang out and laughter from across the gardens. There was a burst of song from some girl and more laughter. Voices came closer and suddenly an Elf and a maid came down the path, laughing, their lightly-shod feet pattering on the cold stones. Erestor turned towards them, his face cold and forbidding. They stopped suddenly when they saw Erestor.

'Ah, forgive us, lord.'

It was Berensul and that wretched girl, thought Erestor.

'We will leave you to your... counsel.'

The cheeky knave even sketched a bow but Erestor did not miss the slightest pause before the word counsel. He narrowed his amber eyes and knowing the effect it would have, tilted his head slightly so the light from the House just caught in his eyes, making them gleam eerily, like a wolf's. And he stretched his mouth so he showed his teeth.

'Yes. Run quickly or I will catch you.' He gnashed his teeth just once for effect and was gratified to see the girl, whatever her name was, step back in fear. Berensul grabbed her hand and the pair of them scampered off.

'You should not frighten them so,' Elrond murmured gently but he had a smile on his lips.

Erestor curled his lip disdainfully. 'They need it. It keeps them in their place.' But Elrond knew him better and laughed.

'Anyone else might be fooled by you, but I have known you for too long.' He leaned back against the bench. Spray drenched the ferns and moss clinging to the wet stone.

Erestor humphed.

'Tell me what happened,' Elrond said suddenly.

Erestor let his head fall back and he looked up at the sky, a scattering of stars against the darkness. 'The one remaining mirror does not simply show what-might-have-beens or shadows of the past. It does not split the light.'

Elrond looked away and said quietly, 'After seeing what Tyelpo showed me, Galadriel's mirror has always felt incomplete to me as though it were a prototype rather than a realised thing, complete in its functions.'

Erestor leaned forwards then, his eyes alight. ''I believe it was the Glass that allowed Glorfindel and my thoughts to run together as I described, as YOU saw. I saw what he was thinking and he saw mine.'

Elrond murmured an agreement. 'There is more?'

'There is more,' Erestor agreed. And then he told him, 'It is a window into the Dark.'

Elrond gasped. 'The Dark? Celebrimbor made a window into the Dark?'

Erestor grasped Elrond's cold hands, fixed his gaze upon Elrond's.

'More than that, Elrond. When we arrived at Phellanthir, Glorfindel was assailed by a horror and dreams of Ruinátoró, the Balrog that killed him and which he killed also…He felt compelled to go to the Óromardë. As did I.'

Elrond stared and Erestor saw how fear touched the edges of his thoughts.

'Did he see the Balrog? In the Glass?' he almost whispered in his fear.

Erestor grew quiet at that and he dropped his gaze. 'Elrond, I have faced the armies of Morgoth on the plains of Anfauglith. I bore witness to our dear King's defeat at the hands of Gothmog and Coldagnir*. If it had been I who believed I would face a Balrog, I would not have wished to go…But the valiant and brave Glorfindel could no more leave Phellanthir thinking a Balrog might lurk within than could I.'

And then Elrond asked, as Erestor knew he would, 'If Glorfindel felt compelled because the Balrog was there, why dd you feel it too? And if Glorfindel could not leave Phellanthir knowing the Balrog was there, what was it that you saw?'

'My lord is there also.'

'Your lord is there?'

Erestor was silent, letting Elrond think on it, to understand, for he would know that there was but one who Erestor acknowledged as his lord. But he knew as well that Elrond believed too that Maedhros was long, long gone, burned and nothing but ash and dust in some deep place in Arda's molten core.

Elrond regarded Erestor uneasily and briefly reached out to Erestor, touched his arm with healing and peace but Erestor shook him off impatiently. 'You do not believe me!'

'How can I?' Elrond spread his hands wide. 'Even with Tyelpo's curvë, it cannot be,' he said gently and Erestor knew he was being humoured.

'It is true, Elrond,' he protested. He tried to hold Elrond's gaze, to persuade, convince him of the truth. 'In the Glass was the Balrog, Ruinátoró. It came for Glorfindel…I have not seen such a thing in all the Ages since the Tears. I swear to you, it was there for Glorfindel. It knew he was there.' Erestor saw how Elrond frowned, and slid Vilya slightly loose on his finger and stroked over the smooth jewel so that he could see….

'Here.' Erestor held out his hand to Elrond, inviting. 'I will let you look.'

He had only done this once before, let Elrond use Vilya to peer into his own memory; much as he had peered into Glorfindel's in Phellanthir. But he, Erestor, was offering this time. He wanted Elrond to see, so that he would understand…and he would see, feel it as Erestor did and so understand….

Slowly Elrond took his hand in his and cupped Erestor's long palm against him so that Vilya's soft blue radiance bathed his hand...

The Öromardé had become a furnace, the heat unbearable. The walls were red with fire. As they burst in, there was a thunderous roar. Here in this enclosed and evil place, the bellowing rage reverberated and thundered around the trembling walls. The marble floor seemed molten under the blaze of fire from the end of the Hall.

But the Glass still held.

Just.

Its thin surface bulged and undulated like the skin of water. Within, a great shape struggled and fought. Flames roared and blazed along its skin, and its great horns were blackened, wings of fire spread and filled the Glass. Its colossal fists were clenched and battered the Glass that bent and flexed like a skin and did not break.

…

A crack of silver-blue shot across the Glass. Silver swirled and turned swiftly, flashed, graceful as a shoal of silver fish, shifted and resolved into the figure of a warrior. The Balrog seemed to shuffle back, gather itself and then hurled itself against the Glass once more. The silver light leapt in front of the demon, like a blade. Where it cut, black stripes tore across the Balrog's fiery flesh and beneath its huge wings the Balrog's body was blackened and bled black ichor.

Erestor felt his heart swell with love and adulation; Maedhros. My lord! he shouted above the din. My lord!

Elrond fell back against the stone seat.

'No. It cannot not be. It cannot be!' Elrond shoved himself to his feet and strode to the edge of the grassed ledge where the water plunged past them, roaring. 'Maedhros cast himself into the furnaces of Arda because he knew the Jewels would not be safe with him, or without him. He took that final decision to destroy them before they destroyed others.' For in spite of the stories, which were only that - stories; Maglor had not cast one into the Sea and Maedhros cast one into the Fire- that was mere poetry. Maglor had been furious. Devastated. Grief-stricken.

Elrond cast his gaze about though he did not see.

Heavily, Erestor rose to his feet and came to stand beside Elrond. He carefully took Elrond's hand in his. 'It is true, Elrond. I have found him. He is there…Not whole. Not now, for the Balrog…how can I describe what happened?' He leaned forwards and fixed Elrond with his amber eyes. 'Look again. See for yourself!'

'No…no. I do not wish to see him...like that.' Elrond turned his stricken eyes to Erestor's and Erestor saw that he could not help it. Erestor closed Elrond's fingers about his and let his memory take over.

He saw again the furnace that he knew was the Öromardé. He saw the bowl of fire that was the Balrog in the Glass and when the demon drew back, he could see that the silver-blue light had coalesced now. Long hair that in life had been the colour of the Balrog's fire streamed out in the wind and the silver-blue figure in the Glass turned his scarred, still noble face towards Erestor in bewilderment and wonder.

Elrond gasped in agony and loss, and clutched Erestor's sleeve. 'Ah! Atar!' he cried.

Erestor's heart clenched, for he had been close behind Maedhros in Sirion when they broke down the doors to Elwing. Too late to see Elwing go over the edge and plunge into the sea, Erestor, Narmó as he was then, had only seen the tall flame-haired Maedhros standing over Elrond and Elros amongst the wreckage of Sirion, bloody sword in hand and staring out of the window where their mother had leapt. He was shouting, furious, spittle flying from his lips and when he turned and saw the brothers, his eyes were terrifying. It had been Maglor who scooped them up, shouting at his brother and thrust Elrond at him. But Maedhros had also turned the child's face into his chest, wrapped his red cloak about him so Elrond could not see what they passed through, so he could only hear the thumping of that indomitable heart as they rode away.

Elrond had grown to love Maedhros with an intensity he only later felt for his own children.

'It was Maedhros in the Glass, Elrond,' Erestor said quietly. 'He was there. It was he who defeated the Balrog, vanquished him. He fought the Balrog and defeated it but took a terrible wound. A mortal blow.' He paused, letting Elrond hear his words, to let them penetrate.

After a moment he continued, 'In the Dark,' he said as calmly as he could but he heard the tremble in his voice, 'it seems you cannot die in the sense that a physical body can die. But the fëa, which is what exists in the Dark, can be dissolved, dissipated. The light that was Maedhros broke off piece by piece, drifted away until there was nothing left…Oh Elrond! The pity of it!' He heard his own voice break then. 'How it hurts to be so torn apart, each note of your Song, each astra, drifting away lost to each other. Alone in that place.…I think they can only find each other when something happens…someone comes.' He could hear himself now, the cool logic gone and he knew he sounded mad as his own lord had been by the end. But he could not stop, not now. 'I think that the Balrog's astra were summoned, attracted, like iron filings to a magnet, when Glorfindel was near. And I think that my lord came because I was there…' He looked intently at Elrond. 'He would be drawn together, Elrond, if you were there. And I. And together, we might find a way to cut him out.'

'No!' Elrond shoved him away, not the Master of Imladris but the grief-stricken youth sent with Erestor to Balar, away from those he loved the most and who loved him while they completed finally their own destruction.

'He will come, I am certain…But I do not yet know how we release him.' Erestor ploughed on, determined that Elrond would believe.

Elrond shook his head in denial. 'Release him? To what?' he cried and strode over to Erestor. He gripped his arm so hard that it hurt, and Erestor clutched him back so they clung together.

'Release him to what, Erestor?' said Elrond, his voice broken. 'He did not want to stay.'

Erestor stared. 'Of course he did! It was the Valar that stopped him from fulfilling his Oath. They made sure that the last one is beyond his reach. Forever!'

'He did not want to stay,' Elrond repeated angrily. 'After Fingon, he could not bear it. Why would you bring him back?'

'He could not stay!' Erestor snapped. 'Not with your fucking mother taking what was his!'

'That had nothing to do with it!' Vilya snapped and sparks flew, her light spun about them like small flashes of lightning. 'It has everything to do with Fingon.'

'I cannot believe you would defend that bitch who abandoned you for a jewel that was not hers!' Erestor shoved at Elrond but it was not easy and Elrond held him close, his grey eyes searched Erestor's as if looking for the truth.

'It is long since I have even wanted to defend her! You know how I feel about them both,' Elrond said referring, Erestor knew, to both his birth parents. He pulled Erestor closer and muttered into his face, 'We have always been on the same side in this.' Erestor broke free, shoving hard at Elrond, feeling the hard body beneath the fine-spun clothes, the sinew and muscle that belied the appearance of scholar.

Elrond released him suddenly and stepped back. He covered his eyes with his hand, Vilya flashed and for a moment it seemed to Erestor that silver-blue sparks flew up and dimmed in the cold air.

All the anger and frustration evaporated and he saw Elrond, his old friend, his ward, his beloved burden and promise. He lifted his face to the sky, breathing hard.

'Forgive me, Elrond.' Erestor was suddenly filled with remorse. 'I do not know what came over me. I am sorry. I am overwrought I know. First Rhawion, then Elladan...and now our friends face the Nazgûl on one side of us and on the other, they go into Mordor.' He bowed his head penitent and he saw that Elrond's own hand trembled as it reached for him.

'If forgiveness were needed, old friend, you never need to ask for it. You have saved me, cared for me when I was sick and grieving, rescued me and mine more times that I can remember.' He pulled Erestor to him but this time, the air was suffused with sorrow, anguish but it was not only his own now but Elrond's too.

'If this had been three days ago, I would have said it was the Ring,' Elrond pulled back slightly so he could look into Erestor's eyes. 'But the Ring has passed beyond the Valley…so what is this? Forgive me old friend. I know we fight back to back.'

Erestor released Elrond, feeling a faint prickling down his spine, power, curvë flickered over him and he knew it was Vilya sensing, tasting. 'Even so, Maedhros is there.' He sighed. 'When this war is over, will you come with me? We must find a way to release him.'

Elrond clasped his hand and Erestor saw that tears pricked his eyes. Finally.

'Of course. If he is there, we cannot leave him there.'

Erestor chose to ignore the 'if' this time but there was a brighter flicker of power. He felt heat almost as if Vilya were probing him, testing him and he wondered if she had some awareness like Ash Nazg, some purpose of her own.

'You have Vilya,' he said slowly and watched Elrond's eyes flick up to catch his own and dart away again. 'She can do more than you think.' He wondered why Elrond turned his hand so Vilya was hidden, as though he suspected something of that ilk.

Erestor stared. Then slowly he reached out to grasp Elrond's arm. 'Can Vilya truly open the Door of Night? On her own?' he asked feverishly.

'I do not know,' Elrond replied uncertainly. 'But she calls to Narya and Nenya. I think she wants me to try.'

tbc.

I think there are two more chapters I think of this. Then I am going back to The Black Arrow for a bit before I get started on the sequel to this and Sons of Thunder. (that's the plan). This story will be continued in the sequel.


	20. Fire upon Amon Sûl

Chapter 20: Watchfires on Amon Sûl

They had left the site of the dead wargs far behind and again, the hooves of their horses pounded the turf and the wind streamed through manes and long hair. Cloaks pulled back and bits jingled and the wind whipped the trees.

Galdor rode fast beside Glorfindel and Glorfindel glanced at the Elf from the Havens in curiosity. That he had the power to weave such a glamour to hide the injured horse and Elf was unexpected. And he had been in the army of Last Alliance though Glorfindel had no memory of him. But Elrond had thought it fit to share with Galdor as well as Tindómion the news that a Balrog had appeared in the Mirror in Phellanthir. What they did not know of course was that Maedhros too had appeared.

Clouds bowled across the sky, gathering hugely so they towered up and up, and ahead of them the line of hills made an undulating ridge, rising sometimes to a thousand feet and here and there falling to low clefts or passes leading to the eastern lands. Along the crest of the ridge were remains of green-grown walls and dikes, and in the clefts there were still the ruins of old works of stone. And ahead of them, Glorfindel could see the the distinct hilltop of Amon Sûl, the great watch tower now no more than a tumbled ring of stones, like a rough crown upon the old hill's head.* But the broken towers reminded him also of Phellanthir. Glorfindel felt the hairs on his neck rise for he could not help but think of Rhawion, and a sense of foreboding crept over him.

Trees clustered thickly about the foot of the hill of the watchtower, and huge broken boulders scattered about the hillside. They wove their way tiredly between and came to the old road to the fortress, no more than a path overgrown by bracken and thorns.

Glorfindel turned and looked back over his shoulder. He could not hear them but he felt the approach of the Nazgûl from the East, their terrible steeds beating the storm clouds with their great reptilian wings.

'Dismount.' He gave the order and the Elves wheeled and turned, sliding down from their horses, quickly taking reins and bridles and saddles from their hot and sweating horses. 'Gather dry wood, tinder and enough wood to keep the watchfires going all night,' he instructed Elrohir, who called a number of men to him and did as he was bid.

'There is a narrow gorge through there,' Galdor said, pulling off his gloves and throwing his cloak back over his shoulder. His green-grey eyes slanted towards a narrow gorge that cracked between the great granite cliffs. 'It will be safe for the horses. I have sheltered there before.'

Glorfindel nodded at Saeldir who stood waiting for Glorfindel's agreement but Galdor's men were already sending their horses off into the narrow gorge and they trotted off snorting and shaking their heads, glad to be free of the rein and bit.

'There is a stream and plenty of fodder,' Galdor said. He looked up at the darkening skies. 'We should not linger. I can smell the storm on the air.'

Already Tindómion was climbing the broken road to the ruined entrance to the ancient fortress. Above him the storm clouds scudded, their ragged edges tinged yellow. Elrohir was calling to the other men, urging them on to follow Tindómion. They scrambled quickly over the boulders towards the summit of the watchtower. The wind tore through the treetops, and the clouds scudded across the sky, their edges torn and ripped. And then huge drops of rain spattered on the already wet ground beneath his feet and streamed off the boulders. Galdor urged his men onwards and they were scattered over the rocks, climbing upwards when the thunder cracked and rolled across the skies. A flash of lightning lit up Elrohir ahead of him and Glorfindel sprang up over the rocks and clambered after him. Tindómion was already on the summit and there was a sudden flare of fire, red-gold scorching heat and for a moment Glorfindel hesitated.

It is not the Balrog I should fear, he reminded himself. That can only kill you. The Nazgûl can take your soul and sever your ties to Arda. You will be adrift...No. You will cease completely.

Glorfindel paused, for he felt a tremble of fear. The Nazgûl were no longer just wraiths. They would devour his soul. Until now there had been some sort of binding laid upon them by their Dark Lord that they could devour, enslave the souls of Men but not Elves...

Cold seeped into his bones. His hand caressed the hilt of Eruvatúrë. No, he told himself as firmly as he could. I have a greater destiny.

But the cold lingered.

The stones of Amon Sûl stabbed upwards and he scrambled over the ruined and crumbling walls and into the old citadel. It was completely ruined, unlike Phellanthir but it had never been a city. Only a fortress and watchtower. He remembered how it had been overrun by Angmar's armies, and every man slain...horribly.

He saw that Galdor stood near the cairn at the centre of the ring of ancient stones, his gaze full of regret and grief, and Glorfindel wondered if Galdor had had some part in the history of Amon Sûl that he looked so grieved at its ruin. The broken stones were blackened as if with fire and the turf was burned, scorched to the roots. This was where the Nine had come upon Gandalf in the Wild, Glorfindel realised. This was where Frodo had been stabbed by the morgul blade. Glorfindel shivered. The morgul blade that could cut the spirit from the body, so the Nazgûl could hunt and devour the spirit. A terrible foreboding gripped him and he felt cold creep down his spine. He looked about the ruins

Elrohir was already throwing great bundles of dried wood into a stack and Tindómion crouched beside a pile of kindling, striking his tinderbox with his flint. A flame caught and Tindómion carefully held a lit taper to the twigs and kindling. One fire was already lit and Elrohir had dropped to his knees to blow on the small flame. It was this fire that had been the sudden blaze that had alarmed Glorfindel a moment ago- of course Elrohir must have put his own fiery Power into it to make it flare and catch so easily. Now it quickly settled to burn. It was not long before there were good sized bonfires at each corner of the old watchtower and Glorfindel stood on the ramparts and turned East.

'Now we give them a beacon to find us,' he murmured and Galdor drew beside him.

'They will come in on the storm,' he said. 'Do we have enough to stoke those fires and keep them burning?'

'No,' said Glorfindel. 'Not for long. But we seek merely to delay them. To cover our friends' departure so they might leave in secret. No more.'

'No less.'

0o0o

The waiting was the worst part. As always, Elrohir thought.

He stood silently on the tumbled stones of the ruined ramparts and felt the storm gathering on the East though the rain had not fallen for long, the air was heavy and the clouds pressed upon them. Far away, the eastern sky had a reddish glow though the sun had long since sunk beyond the distant hills of the Shire and away to Mithlond. Behind him, men hurried about, building up the watchfires that Glorfindel had ordered, carefully stacked so they would burn as long as possible. The hurried, hushed voices were whipped away by the wind that streamed from the East. He had instructed the archers too, and they ranged about the watchtower with arrows already wadded and tipped in oil so they could burn.

Tindómion stood above him, one foot resting on the next broken step to the destroyed tower, his long hair pulled back in the wind and burnished and fiery in the watchfires. His silver eyes glanced to where Elrohir stood below him.

'They are coming,' he said. Elrohir did not speak.

Ash Nazg durbatulûk...Ash Nazg gimbatul...

The words of the Ring seemed to resonate now as they had not before his encounter with the Nazgûl in Phellanthir. He shifted in discomfort. He could not help the shudder that gripped him, for Angmar was coming and the WitchKing had reached out and changed him irrevocably. It seemed to Elrohir now that a black script wound and scrolled through the wind, in the ragged clouds, in the beat of his heart. Words that were woven now into his muscle and bone, written on his skin. The wind pushed his cloak back, pulled his hair back from his face like cold hands.

My lord will give you all that you desire if you but bring him the One, Angmar had said in the shadow of Phellanthir. You know where it is. We can see it in you. Tell us where and I will release you to the Shadow. You will have dominion. You will make your brother whole. When my lord has the One, you will have your yôzaira.'

The Nazgûl knew him now. They knew his fear, his secret despair and dark lust.

But they did not own him.

He would fight.

His fists clenched over the hilt of Aícanaro and the sword's bright anger, spitting and hissing at the approach of the Nazgûl, ignited his hatred. Vengeance. That was Aícanaro's desire. It was his also. He stood silent and still on the edge of the darkness and limned by the red fiery light. But inwardly, he seethed and burned with fury and desire. The images that the WitchKing had unearthed in the darkness of his soul leapt into his thoughts...

The fiery light of torches in sconces gleamed on the rocky wall. He found himself moving forwards, silently easing through the oily dark that clung to him, and the shadows with their horrid skulls and sharp little teeth slipped along in his wake. Ahead of him the torchlight lit up a body that hung, stretched to its limits, from shackles, from chains that disappeared into the dark. Long, pale gold hair streamed down around it…Ah! Eru…He almost cried out for the lust that flared and ignited in his loins and the shame that blazed in his heart…But this flat-bellied, lean hipped figure was absolutely male and around the pale skin that was already marked with blood, was a shape painted onto the skin, a wild whirl of colour and abstract… The sound of a lash against flesh cracked and a muffled cry made him jerk and pulse with desire.

'Your yôzaira.'

He found himself stiff with lust, with desire to subdue, to master. How could that be? He hated Legolas. But he admired him too, and wanted him. Angmar had recognised something that Elrohir himself had not...And the temptation that Legolas Thranduillion posed was a seductive lure to Elrohir's dark lust.

His breath caught in his throat and he wrestled his heart down. I will not think on him. I will not be enslaved.

'Elrohir?'

He blinked slowly and looked towards Tindómion where his friend stood above upon the fallen tower. A second image threw itself against Elrohir's determination to resist.

In Tindómion's chamber, an Elf, barefoot and white linen shirt gaped wide, and in the soft lamplight his pale skin gleamed. His shirt had slipped off one shoulder and Elrohir saw the outlandish colour and swirling patterns inked on his skin beneath the shirt. Pale gold hair fell loosely and unbound over his broad shoulders and straight down as far as his lean hips. It was Legolas Thranduillion. Barefoot and his long green eyes were dazed with lust. When he saw it was Elrohir he blinked slowly and his mouth, warm and wanton, opened in a gasp.

And then later that night, Elrohir had seen Tindómion slip from Legolas' rooms, his bronze hair long and straight down his back, his pale grey eyes sleepy and sated, he carried his tunic in one hand and had not bothered even lacing his shirt of breeches. Soft with sex. Sleepy with it. And Elrohir had boiled, his blood hot and furious and he had wanted to burst in and crush Legolas...

'Elrohir!' Tindómion had leapt down from his perch and stood now in front of Elrohir, his face close to Elrohir and concerned. 'Come back to yourself my friend,' he murmured and lifted his hand to Elrohir's face.

Elrohir pulled away despite himself, startled and he found his fists clenched and ready to strike... his friend.

Elrohir forced his clenched fists down hard at his sides, fought the need to lash out at his friend. His friend...He breathed out of his nose and looked down, forced the fury away.

Tindómion had been with Legolas. They were right together, he told himself with a twist in his gut of anger, of brutal, bitter desire, that he ruthlessly suppressed. Tindómion had never hidden his affairs, not flaunted them either out of respect for the people of the Valley, for they were a mix of peoples and beliefs, but he had never hidden. And he was brave and fair and Elrohir could not blame Legolas for being smitten...Or Tindómion either...

'Elrohir?' Tindómion called again. Elrohir lifted his eyes to look into the concerned face of his friend.

'The rain is coming.'

Tindómion turned his head at the sound of Galdor's announcement and Elrohir blinked slowly. Rain. That would put out the fires.

'Tindómion, Elrohir,' Glorfindel called to them from across the ruined fortress. 'Do what you can to ward the fires. We will need fire against the Nazgûl when they come.' He turned to Galdor. 'Have your men wad the tips of some arrows and dip them in oil so they will burn.' Galdor nodded quickly, for they would fire at the Nazgûl and hope to drive them off with flames.

Elrohir turned automatically, instinctively doing as Glorfindel asked, welcoming the distraction from his dark thoughts. A hand pressed against his shoulder. It was Glorfindel of course, and he felt a warmth, hope. He glanced up into Glorfindel's fair and fearless face, his unhurried calm soothed and inspired every man for he spoke to each one.

Elrohir wondered if the Elf Lord had been as calm standing on the Cristhorn with Ruinátoró pounding towards him, wreathed in flame and black smoke wings. He had been white-faced in Phellanthir when he stood and faced his old foe, bade them all to run and leave him to face the Balrog alone. Elrohir gazed into the flames of the fire he tended, the glowing logs shifted and one fell, cinders blazed upwards into the darkness and remembered the strangeness of the Óromardë, and the blast of white Power that Glorfindel had sent against the Balrog, and hoped the same Power could be used now, against the Nazgûl.

Light rain pattered lightly onto granite and dusty earth, quickly dampening the earth. Elrohir felt it mist his hair and face and clothes and it sizzled on the flames of their watchfires. Tindómion crouched beside the biggest fire, coaxing it, invoking the fire to respond to his own blood, the House of Feänor, Spirit of Fire itself. Elrohir's hand fell to the hilt of Aícanaro, feeling the incipient warmth of it in the palm of his hand, how Aícanaro almost hissed, curled into him at the prospect of battle against the Nine.

0o0o

The night deepened. The drizzling rain had stopped and the clouds tore raggedly so the Moon sailed high and then disappeared behind cloud once more. Pressure built and pressed down upon them. Elves were ranged about the tumbled ramparts, archers gathered in small groups with arrows easily at hand. The watchfires were guarded and faggots of wood built up to keep them burning, and the archers were alert, their eyes kept glancing upwards where the sky darkened and deepened.

Glorfindel picked his way carefully towards the tumbled ramparts where Elrohir stood, one foot on the parapet and sharp grey eyes peering below into the forest.

'There.' Elrohir glanced at him and then turned back. 'You see movement? A glint of steel perhaps? You hear the grunt of an Orc?'

Yes. He heard it then. The muffled pig-like squeal of one, another's grunting. Orcs then.

'Wargs too?'

Galdor appeared beside them and cocked his head on one side. 'There are Wargs too, he agreed before Elrohir could reply.

'Well then,' Glorfindel drew Eruvatúrë.

'Well then,' agreed Galdor. His own sword came ringing from its sheath and firelight poured along the runes engraved upon the blade. Glorfindel glanced at it briefly for it was well made indeed. Almost he peered closer for there was a long scrolled tree engraved on the blade that was somehow familiar. But then came a long howl from below and a horrid yelping.

Elrohir turned his head towards Glorfindel and his eyes were fierce and brilliant. 'What is your will, lord?' he said formally now that battle was about to begin.

'How many?'

'Saeldir says fifty at the most. We have men stationed all around the fortress. None will get through. We can simply wait if you wish it.'

Glorfindel looked up into the sky. 'It is not the Orcs we wish to engage but their masters. But nor must we be overrun when they arrive. Let us dispatch these troublesome distractions. Galdor, tell half your archers to defend the walls and the other half to stay in the centre to shoot the Nazgûl's steeds when they come.'

Galdor bowed his head briefly and jogged towards his waiting men. They gathered about him expectantly, excited and he spoke quickly. Many nodded or glanced over to Glorfindel briefly and then back to Galdor. A number of them detached themselves from the ranks and ranged themselves on the broken stones of the crumbled ramparts. They strung their bows as they ran, fitting arrows. Elrohir's men were already ranged about the summit and swords gleamed in the flickering firelight.

'Tindómion,' Glorfindel called. He came quickly, the firelight flickered in his silver-grey eyes, stroked his long bronze hair that was pulled back into a thick horsetail high on his head. 'Do not let that fire go out,' Glorfindel said in a low voice. 'When the Nazgûl come, we will need it to keep them at bay.'

Tindómion glanced at the gathered Mithlond Elves in concern. 'Their bows are short,' he observed. 'Suitable for shooting Orcs but to reach the winged basilisks of the Nazgûl?' He left the rest unsaid.

Below, a darkness crept. Like a black tide of beetles scuttling and chittering, Orcs began to climb the shoulders of Amon Sûl. The wind blew through the empty towers and a brief shower of rain spattered again on the cloaks and helms of the Elves waiting. Firelight licked along the drawn steel of swords and arrows and sharp elven eyes narrowed as the first Orcs came charging up the steep hillside.

There was a moment of calm upon Amon Sûl and then, suddenly, arrows zipped through the air. A dozen Orcs fell and more came on, treading on their fallen comrades as they charged. More arrows zipped through the air and more Orcs fell but now a few had broken through and the clash of swords joined the sound of arrows. Indeed their bows were good enough for shooting Orcs, thought Glorfindel as he plunged his sword through the chest of an unwary Orc. He heard the first elven cry as one man fell. Two Orcs came hurtling towards Glorfindel and he had no time now for there were Wargs too and he turned and swung Eruvatórë in an arc about him, slashed through the throat of a Warg and then thrust upwards in time to stop an Orc sabre.

Behind him he heard fighting and Elrohir's bloodthirsty battle cry. Orcs were swarming over the battlements and arrows whizzed past, but now there seemed far more than fifty. They would not keep them out, Glorfindel realised, not with so many. All around him was snarling, yelping and Orcs ugly cries. A huge Orc lunged towards Saeldir, a great sabre gleaming bloodily in its fists and Glorfindel leapt in front of it, beat down upon its arm. It howled and dropped the sabre, clutching its arm and instead lunged towards Glorfindel, teeth bared and yellow eyes maddened with hate and pain and fury. He did not pause but hacked Eruvatórë through its neck, the veins, sinew and bone. The ugly leering head rolled off and he kicked it hard towards a Warg which instantly distracted, leaped upon the grisly ball and snapped and chewed at it.

Glorfindel saw Tindómion appear from nowhere and plunge his sword deep into the Warg's belly and ripped open its hide. Screaming the Warg threw its head around, snapping and snarling with its fangs bared. At the same moment an Orc sprang forwards at Tindómion, sabre high and Glorfindel's sword clanged against it and he whirled swiftly and slashed open the Orc's throat. Tindómion leapt onto the thrashing Warg's back, sword high and crossed with his long white knife and plunged his knife into the base of its skull. The Warg fell instantly dead.

Glorfindel whirled about to find Elrohir standing immediately behind him with Aícanaro deep in the twitching body of an Orc. Neither paused for the fighting was thick then and deep and there were Elves injured and on the ground, and Orcs still swarmed over the ramparts.

Too many, Glorfindel noted as he plunged into a gang of Orcs and swept the bright blade through their slow and ponderous bodies. The Elves would need to be free of this rabble when the Nazgûl arrived. He could not risk capture; he would not lose one bright soul to the Wraiths! He had lost one already.

To his left, a gang of Orcs had converged in one place and with horror, Glorfindel saw that Saeldir was on the ground and struggling to pull himself up onto one elbow, sword in one hand but too unconvincing to be a threat.

Glorfindel seized a burning branch from the fire and with Eruvatórë in one hand and the flaming brand in the other, he leapt over the still twitching body of a Warg towards Saeldir, careful to land away from the Warg's teeth for you never knew with Wargs. An Orc leapt after him, landing heavily, sabre dripping with red blood and yellow eyes glittering. It charged at him and Glorfindel simply lifted Eruvatórë to slit the Orc's throat.

He pulled Saeldir to his feet and settled him near the wall where he could defend himself more easily. He seized the moment to glance about, to take in the damage. There were more Orcs climbing over the ramparts, knives in their teeth as they used their hands to scramble over the tumbled stones, sabres on their backs and wicked hunger in their yellow, alien eyes. Too many.

'The Nazgûl are coming!'

No! It was too soon, he thought panicked. The archers from Mithlond, who had gathered upon the ruined tower, rained arrows down upon them and a swathe of Orcs fell, Galdor's men quickly followed and despatched the Orcs

'They are coming! To me, archers!' cried Elrohir. He stood before the watchfires at the base of the ruined tower, and the flames seemed to leap up in response to his urgency.

Those archers not already ranged upon the ruins of the tower struggled through the fighting to reach the fire and Elrohir handed them arrows he had gleaned more from the bodies of Orcs and Wargs. A couple of warriors were ranged behind the crumbled watch tower to protect the archers. Some Orcs seemed to realise what they intended and a gang of them lurched towards the archers but Elrohir put himself between the Orcs and his archers and was a whirl of silver steel and black. The Orcs fell as if scythed and the dark blade slicing through the air reverberated as if it sang.

Glorfindel strode between the struggling, shouting groups of Orcs and Elves, striking dead many Orcs as he passed, almost casually so little energy did he waste in their despatch. He counted the fallen Elves as he passed; three Mithlond Elves dead. More Elves from both Imladris and Mithlond wounded but able to fight on, for a while at least. More Orcs dead and eight wargs. Arrows stuck out from the bodies of both Orcs and Wargs and he admitted the effectiveness of the short bows of Mithlond...but they would be nothing against the thick hides of the Nazgûls' winged steeds. They had to hope the Nazgûl dismounted and they could send fire into their black shrouds.

Suddenly he paused. 'Where are the rest of the Wargs?' he shouted about the din of battle, the cursing, clanging of swords, snarling of Wargs and Orcs. Saeldir was leaning on his sword nearby, breathing heavily, injured but not incapacitated.

He looked up at Glorfindel confused. 'Have we not killed them all?'

'No! There are a dozen bodies here but there were more. Maybe five, six more?'

And then it struck him. A terrified whinny came from below and Glorfindel jumped up onto the ramparts. 'The horses! They have gone after the horses!' The narrow gorge had not been protection enough and he cursed himself for not taking the time to check what Galdor said.

Tindómion was beside him, the light blazing in his pale grey-silver eyes, his beautiful face hard and grim. Like his kin. Like Maedhros.

'Go! Take...' He did a quick calculation. Maybe there were not so many Wargs below but they were hard to kill and infinitely more dangerous. Orcs were easy to kill and even with three times the number of Orcs as Elves, he did not think them much of a threat without the Wargs. But the Nazgûl were coming. 'Take seven with you. Protect our friends! And then return.'

Tindómion did not pause. He touched the arms of Elves nearby and they instantly leapt over the broken stones and disappeared down the dark slopes of the hillside fort.

Glorfindel strode over to where two Orcs were clambering over the tumbled stones to reach the archers. He struck one with this sword across the back of the neck and the other in the belly as it turned to see what had happened to the first.

There were handfuls of Orcs still fighting, and yet more clambering over the low walls.

Suddenly they stopped; every one of them froze, turning towards the East as if they had been called, intently listening. On their disfigured, ugly faces was the same identical expression; hatred, loathing...anticipation.

The Elves did not pause but launched themselves against the distracted Orcs, slashing and stabbing. Suddenly a small group of Orcs broke away, surrounding one of the Mithlond Elves. Glorfindel saw Galdor fighting his way towards the man but the Orcs grabbed the Elf and dragged him, slipping and sliding over the rocks and tumbled stones and away into the darkness beyond the old fortress walls. To Glorfindel's horror, a few Mithlond Elves leapt over the ramparts and followed, disappearing into the darkness. Three of them running headlong in pursuit of Orcs, and with no knowing what else was out there.

'Fall back!' Glorfindel shouted, running towards the crumbled wall over which the Elves had gone. He gripped the ramparts and leaned over, peering into the dark. 'Fall back!' he cried again to the three Elves.

There was nothing.

And then a gurgling howl followed by a shout of anger.

Galdor was suddenly there with him, his face contorted with rage and horror and grief. He made to climb over the walls and Glorfindel threw out a hand to stop him.

'Hold, Galdor! We will do this properly. They seek to draw us out, to split us up.'

The sound of a brief, furious battle in the dark where the Mithlond Elves had disappeared. Steel clashed against steel. Then silence. Glorfindel stopped, staring into the darkness beyond the walls of Amon Sûl. Other Elves had detached themselves from the fighting and ran towards them. Glorfindel threw out his hands to stop them from charging after those who had already gone. 'Fall back!' he shouted again angrily. 'Do not let those Orcs overrun our position on the tower!' Then he leaned forwards to listen, to pinpoint where the Mithlond Elves had gone so he could direct a search.

There was silence for a moment.

Then a sound; it started like a thin whine at first, grew into a cry of pain and grew into a wail and then screaming that went on and on and on. A cry to Elbereth from another elven throat. Glorfindel threw out his hand to stop Galdor from leaping over the wall in pursuit but Galdor turned his face briefly towards Glorfindel.

'Those are my men, Glorfindel. Do not dare to stop me.' And he was gone.

'Galdor!' But the darkness had swallowed him and a few moments later the screaming stopped abruptly. Then suddenly in the forest below the cacophony of battle erupted again the terrified whinnying of horses and the thunder of hooves below in the darkness, Wargs baying and snarling and the sudden clash of swords and sabres behind him on the hilltop.

Glorfindel gripped the edge of the rampart and leaned over, peering into the darkness below.

He felt a hand clasp his shoulder and whirled round. Elrohir was beside him, hand on his shoulder and Aícanaro with bloody strings of guts looped about the blade like a festoon. To Glorfindel it seemed the sword hissed and coiled in pleasure at the blood that dripped on the blade. And even as he watched, the blood vanished as if the blade absorbed it, drank its fill.

'Hold,' Elrohir murmured. 'This is to lure you out. They think you have the Ring.' The firelight flickered in his eyes.

'I know.'

'It is no easier knowing,' Elrohir said, his face hard and like cut glass.

The darkness was deep and the churning clouds thick. Orcs and Elves struggled together within the old fortress, the red light of the watchfires gleaming demonically on the ugly Orcish faces, teeth bared and bloody.

'Hold,' said Elrohir again, even more quietly. His hand gripped Glorfindel's shoulder more tightly and Glorfindel knew it was as much to hold himself back as Glorfindel. 'Remember why we are here,' he said through gritted teeth.

Glorfindel turned his head in acknowledgment and Elrohir's grip loosened on his shoulder. 'Yes. It is Tindómion down there, and Galdor. They have fought in more battles against Orcs and Wargs than I can count. And we have the Nine to consider.'

He glanced around at those remaining and saw how their ranks had thinned though the Orcs were considerably lessened too. He felt suddenly that he had lost control of this skirmish and that the Nazgûl, directing this from afar, were gaining the upper hand. Tindómion and Galdor were below somewhere in the forest with a number of warriors. Their force had been split no matter his intention and strategy...But perhaps it was for the best anyway, he thought quickly. After all, he wanted the Nazgûl to come, to engage them for long enough that Gandalf made good his departure from Imladris under cover.

He beckoned to Saeldir, who broke away from the struggle and fought his way to Glorfindel's side. 'Take ten men. Go and help Galdor.' 'Leave me ten archers.'

'I will send them with Annael,' Saeldir said stoutly. " And I will remain with you.' Before Glorfindel had time to even speak, Saeldir had turned away and clasped Annael's arm, speaking hurriedly and Annael was nodding vigorously.

Then from the East and borne upon the cold wind came a cry, a thin wail. Faraway, huge serrated wings thumped down on the air.

I have come for you, Glorfindel of Gondolin... I have not forgotten...And you cannot slay me. No man can slay me. It is as you foretold.

The cold malice sneered and sliced against his own fear. Sent ice into his veins.

Angmar.

'Archers!' He heard Elrohir's voice command. But the bows of Mithlond are too short, Glorfindel knew with a dreadful certainty.

The wind suddenly blew, gusted through the trees below so they tossed and surged like a sea, .

'It is only fear!' Elrohir strode amongst the men still fighting off the remaining Orcs. A short black bolt whizzed past his ear and he turned and stabbed Aícanaro through the belly of the Orc that shot it. 'Fear is their greatest weapon and they are terrible,' he continued without pause. 'But it is only fear.' He was magnificent, the firelight catching on his cuirass, pouring over the mithril runes of dark Aícanaro. His hair pulled back in a high tail that streamed down his back and his sharp eyes and sharp cheekbones emphasised in the firelight as he raised his wicked sword and cut into Orc flesh so the blade streamed with black blood.

Child of Finwë indeed, thought Glorfindel, seeing in his mind Fingon as he rode into battle, and then he launched himself once more into the fray, slicing through an Orc's throat and stabbing another in the gut.

In the forest below the trees writhed as if in anguish as the wind grew stronger and howled through the empty and ruined towers of Amon Sûl. A few loose pebbles skittered down from the watchtower. Glorfindel looked up. Slowly, emerging from the dense cloud and circling, was a huge winged creature. It disappeared into the darkness like it had never been there. Was a ghost.

'Archers ready!' Glorfindel cried and leapt upon a fallen stone. 'Stoke the fires!' He climbed rapidly until he was level with the topmost archer. The archers had burning stakes driven between the stones so they could pass their arrows through fire and the smoke was thick around them. The wind pulled back his hair and cloak and firelight gilded him. ''Ware above. Aim as it comes out from the cloud but waste not your arrows. Remember, the Nazgûl can be driven off by fire but not their steeds.' There was the creak of bowstrings and arrows glinted in the firelight.

Silence.

And then, high, high above, out of bowshot, huge wings stretched out on the wind and drifted out of the clouds. A hoarse bellow reached them and more than one archer quailed, but the creature swooped over them far above, weaving between the clouds and then faded from view.

'Hold!' Glorfindel commanded for they could not waste arrows but he felt the fear that trembled through the ranks, the cold and darkness settled upon them, crushed them.

One of the archers lost his nerve and sent a gleaming arrow speeding through the air. 'Hold,' Glorfindel said again, his voice was not loud but he filled it with Power, courage. Calm, he thought, it is only fear and sent out a wave of reassurance, of light into their hearts.

Gibbering and harsh cheering from many Orcish throats reached the ears of the Elves watching, waiting on the top of Amon Sûl, so they knew that Tindómion had not defeated the Orcs. There were no sounds of fighting in the forest below. Not now.

Glorfindel caught a look from Elrohir that was filled with loss. Surely Tindómion, the last son of the House of Fëanor would not have met such an ignoble end? But better die by the hands of Orcs than the Nazgûl, he thought and the sense of foreboding deepened. Is this where I too will meet my end, he thought.

Sudden lightning tore through the sky then and lit up the huge wings of the great basilisks that circled in the sky. Slowly. Still out of arrow range for the short bows of Mithlond that were more use to hunting than war. Another flash of lighting gleamed silver on the reptilian hides of the beasts and the slow flap of serrated wings on the wind.

Lightning struck again and when it passed, they were plunged into darkness. It was worse, knowing what was up there and not seeing.

A hoarse cawing was right above him and a wind blasted him. Something swooped towards Glorfindel, and he threw himself to the ground, shouting a warning. Huge leathery wings hissed past him and something clawed at him as it flew past. Arrows zipped through the air and clattered uselessly onto the stones nearby. He grabbed the arrows lest they be wasted and scrambled to his feet.

'It is the Nazgûl! Archers, hold until they are close enough!' It was Elrohir.

A shower of arrows sped through the air into the sky and the black shadows that were circling high above split and soared. One veered off course slightly and dipped its wings. Then it righted itself and turned, screaming towards the tower. It dropped like a hawk and suddenly other huge shapes emerged from the dark, suddenly swooping above them. Wailing filled the air, high-pitched shrieks and Glorfindel felt it pierce his ears, like a spear of sound disrupting his Song, unpicking the notes, peeling them off. He forced himself not to clutch at his ears and instead peered upwards, and saw that the throats of the beasts were pale, vulnerable.

'Aim for their throats!' Glorfindel cried, pulling Eruvatórë ringing from its sheath while Elrohir signalled for another shower of arrows that whizzed around them. One winged beast reared up, thrashing its great wings and beating the air into a storm and Glorfindel spotted a small arrow sticking out from its gullet.

Behind him the archers were frantically wadding arrows and dipping them in oil and fire, passing them up to the best of them for the Nazgûl were close enough to hit. A deadly cloud of blazing arrows hurtled through the air over his head. The huge winged beasts swerved and dipped drunkenly, great serrated wings flailing against the arrows. Wind from their wings beat through the ruins, ripped cloaks and hair and rocked the elves on their feet and the screaming of the wraiths pierced the air.

The Nazgûl whirled their steeds away. Two sped upwards almost vertically until they were beyond the reach of the flaming arrows which fell to the earth far from the hill and plunged into the forest below.

'Hold fire!' Elrohir's voice called for not one of the dreadful beasts was in bowshot now and the archers immediately scattered, searching for arrows.

A raindrop splashed on Glorfindel's hand. He looked down at the water droplet spreading over his skin, already evaporating in his heat. Then another. And another.

He turned towards Elrohir and met his eyes. Both knew.

Thunder rolled around the hills. Instantly Elrohir was throwing the dried kindling they had gathered earlier onto the fire. Glorfindel nodded at Saeldir who beckoned to some of the Imladrian warriors guarding the perimeter of the old fortress and set them instead to watch the fire and keep it burning. Tindómion had woven a warding about the fire before he had left and it would hold for a while, thought Glorfindel. But not forever. He saw Saeldir pull his cloak from his shoulders and throw it over the remaining tinder. Sensible man, Glorfindel nodded at him approvingly. They had fought in Angmar together, knew how things worked, and he was glad to see the wound had not slowed Saeldir.

While the archers scurried about gleaning arrows and then leaping back to their places on the tower, Glorfindel leaned out over the ruined parapet and peered into the darkness below. Suddenly there were sounds of a fierce battle breaking out. Wargs snapped and snarled and there was the clash of swords. Horses' hooves pounded on the turf below and there was cries and horrible guttural shouting. He almost shouted with relief for surely this was Tindómion's small band! He hoped too that they had joined with Galdor.

He looked about himself quickly and considered. They had already lost two men earlier in the Warg attack, then four more had vanished after the Orcs and Galdor had followed and there were five in Tindómion's band. He had sent ten more including Annael and was left with ten men and some of those were injured, although lightly and they could and would fight. Orcs they could kill. Wargs they could kill...But the Nazgûl?...Few of them could defeat Sauron's most dreaded servants. And Angmar, no man could slay. Glorfindel himself had foreseen that. Fire had been a key part of his defence but now the rain was coming and it would put out the fires, no matter how hard they tried.

He was right; moments later the rain came down hard. The fires hissed and sputtered, struggled to stay alive and Elrohir was shouting to Saeldir as they ran from one fire to another in the drenching rain, coaxing each fire to stay alight. The cold rain battered against Glorfindel's eyelashes, wet his cold cheeks. In minutes it had become a downpour. He heard Elrohir cursing.

Glorfindel moved to stand before the archers' position. 'They have not gone,' he said to Elrohir and glanced back over his shoulder. 'They wait for the fires to go out.'

The archers stood together, back to back and stared out into the pressing darkness. There was no moon, no stars for the dense rainclouds obliterated them, but even though the driving rain, they could hear the battle that raged below in the forest; they could hear shouting, the clash of steel on steel. A horse screamed in terror somewhere and there was a mighty crash down in the trees.

But on the hilltop, it was absolutely silent. The rain gradually eased and Glorfindel stood guard over Elrohir as he tended the fires, coaxing them gently with his own Power, his Finwëan blood so there was still a smoulder. But it was not enough.

The dark pressed around them and they could no longer see their own feet, or anything in front of them.

But suddenly it was cold.

The rainclouds tore apart to reveal the hard bright stars. Then, from the Eastern side of the ancient hill rose a huge shadow, blocking out the sky. Serrated wings stretched the width of the hilltop itself and an eerie green glow lit the beast as it rose up from the darkness of the forest. Upon it was a greater darkness and it seemed to draw in the night to itself. Angmar.

The creature hovered for a moment and Glorfindel saw that something was wriggling and struggling in its talons. A piteous screaming whinny came and Glorfindel saw then it was one of the horses; the chestnut horse that Elrohir had ridden. Beside him Elrohir gave a cry and stepped forward. Then he snatched up a crossbow from a fallen Orc and lifted it to his shoulder, firing the bolt straight and true. The horse went limp. The Nazgûl lifted its hand effortlessly and the huge basilisk rose up and swooped above them, its ugly cawing resounding through the ruined fortress. There was a tremendous crash and Anguirel's broken carcass was dropped before them, his poor neck twisted and his glossy chestnut coat gouged and bloody. Elrohir gave a cry and ran to the horse but the bolt he had sent was true and there was no breath.

Before they had time to move, another body was dropped from on high and landed beside it. This time, it was an Elf; the warrior who had pursued the Orcs when they left the hilltop. His eyes had been gouged out and his ears cut off. It had been a dreadful death.

Furious, Glorfindel leapt upon the rampart, sword drawn and clasped in both hands, he brandished it like a flame before him and light poured along the blade forged in Aman by Aulë himself. He felt the churn of Power charging through him, the Power he had blasted against Ruinatóró in Phellanthir, the Power he had used to drive back Pitya-angu and rescue Legolas although too late for Rhawion.

'I am for you, foul one!' He thrust a bolt of Power like lightning against the huge winged basilisk. It reared back, struggling to turn but suddenly there was the soft implosion of Power. And then suddenly it was hurled away by the force of Power, so it spiralled, out of control, its huge wings flapping uselessly and struggling against the sheer force. The Nazgûl's enraged shrieking was lost in the darkness.

Above them, another huge shadow swooped suddenly from the darkness. The archers ranged upon the ruined tower sending showers of arrows swooshing into the sky. The basilisk swerved to avoid the arrows, sending its tail crashing into the ramparts where Glorfindel stood. Stones skittered and fell and Glorfindel ducked, dragging Elrohir with him. The air beat around them. A rancid stink, warm and salty like rotting meat, hit him as the fell beast passed. Glorfindel saw Saeldir leap up and plunge his sword into the creature's belly as it flew low and the beast veered sideways and twisted, turning back and screaming, swooping towards the Imladrian warrior so it could pass low again. This time, as the beast pounded the air, the Nazgûl rider lifted its thin hand, almost carelessly and Glorfindel watched as Saeldir fell to his knees, clutching his own throat.

The basilisk's great talons were raised as it came crashing towards Saeldir and Glorfindel shoved himself away from Elrohir and leapt in the beast's path, Eruvatórë lifted and held straight against his body like a lance. He saw the beast's pale underbelly rear up before him and its forelegs thrashing but it was too late to stop and its headlong plunge took it straight onto his bright Eruvätoré. He shoved Saeldir out of the beasts' path and felt the blade sink into its underbelly up to the hilt. Hot blood pumped out over his hands, flooded over his arms as the blade sank deep. He was pushed along the ground by the beast's weight and speed and crashed against the crumbled wall. With a grunt of pain, he pulled Eruvatórë free and squirmed out from between the wall and the cold smooth hide of the Nazgûl's steed.

He struggled to his feet, breathing hard, and stopped.

Before him, it seemed that the darkness itself had gathered, coalesced. Drawing itself up, a tall and shrouded figure, an empty hood, an iron crown. In its gauntleted hands a long sword in one, and in the other, a morgul blade.

Angmar.

And from the shadows, another shape stepped, a thin black shroud that fluttered in the wind and a long sword raised before it like an ancient salute

So Khamûl is here also, Glorfindel thought.

I have come for you, Glorfindel of Imladris. Glorfindel of Gondolin.

I will devour you.

And they struck. Simultaneously, ancient swords wound about with sorcery and dark magic, met Eruvatórë with a resounding clang and sparks flew. He turned and caught Khamûl's blade against his own and let it slide down, then struck out hard with his foot, meeting old armour beneath the thin shroud. Already he was bringing Eruvatórë up and parrying the blow from Angmar even as a cold wind tore his hair and pulled him back and a terrible shrieking filled the air.

From somewhere to his right, he heard Saeldir cry out and caught sight of him standing on the remains of the tower and shooting arrows. But the fires were mere smoulders and not enough to fight the Nazgûl. He saw how the shadows reached for his archers, his last warriors, and the thin black shrouds fluttered as the Nine emerged from the dark. Above were three more shapes, huge shadows that circled hungrily for the Nazgûl also had their steeds though one at least was lost.

Angmar struck again suddenly, twirling the blade in his iron clad fists as if the heavy sword were nothing. Khamûl struck simultaneously and struck hard again. Glorfindel fought back hard. Under his feet the mud was slippery and rocks and stones had fallen, so he had to leap and step over unseen obstacles. And from his left, he saw another dark shape approach.

He could not fight all Nine, and his archers without fire, were almost defenceless. He whirled about and launched himself towards the last fire and seized a smouldering brand. He felt the Power charge, felt how it ran into his fingers and there was a crackling light, a surge of Power.

'Narë-usto,' he whispered and let Power ball in his fists and surge into the brand. Instantly the flames burst into life and he thrust it first into the smouldering ashes and then swept it around him in an arc of fire. The Nazgûl in front of him shrieked and hacked at the flames with its sword. Cinders flew up into the darkness and flickered on the wind that swept through the ruins on the hilltop. But Angmar was not deterred and wielded his sword in two hands and cut the brand as he swept it before him. Glorfindel rammed his white Power against the WitchKing, forced it to slash down over him. Angmar threw up his ancient broadsword and strove against it so that Glorfindel felt the strain as he pushed, pressed down, struggled to bring the bladelight close enough to strike the Nazgûl lord. Abruptly he pulled back and then shoved it hard so it broke through the darkness of the Nazgûl; for a brief moment, the light shone upon the WitchKing of Angmar, showed his terrible face, the skull that had been eaten away by Time, the terrible pale eyes that hungered, that starved for light, for a bright elven soul.

Elrohir snatched a burning brand from the newly kindled fire and held it against the remaining arrows wadded and dipped in oil. "Archers, rally!' he cried. 'A blow for Mithlond! A blow for Imladris!'

But above him wheeled two huge shapes and suddenly one plummeted like a hawk. Glorfindel saw Elrohir looking upwards in shock and in the next moment, he was leaping from the great height and the winged basilisk was crashing into the ruined tower.

Suddenly there was enormous crushing pain and Glorfindel found the cold, wet earth beneath his cheek. Crushing pain on his chest. He blinked. He was beneath a huge boulder that had fallen upon him. Stars exploded in his eyes and crippling pain crushed his shoulder, his arms, his legs. Darkness clouded his sight and he knew he was helpless.

0o0o0o

tbc


	21. Glorfindel

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> For LayneWolfe

Chapter 21: Glorfindel.

 

Pressure weighed down upon Glorfindel, the heaviness of the granite boulder like an iron bar slowly pressing down over his chest, pushing him into the ground. He thought he was sinking...and then he closed his eyes and felt the ghouls in the air above, their empty skulls, the teeth grinning in their bony jaws and the thin skeletal hands that stretched towards the bright spirits of the elves...He felt Angmar's attention rest upon him and the hunger...

You understand now, Glorfindel of Gondolin. Glorfindel of Imladris. You see that fear is not, after all, our greatest weapon. You see now how we might vanquish you forever.

He heard someone calling him but it seemed far away and he was very cold.

I will devour you.

He blinked stupidly and his fingers scrabbled for his sword but it was too far, and he was confused and dazed. A crushing weight was on his chest, his arms and he could not feel his legs...He moved his head slightly and that hurt so he stopped. 

Slow, heavy footsteps reverberated through the ground and he felt it in his sore and crushed ribs, his broken limbs. The edge of a thin black shroud fluttered at the edge of his vision and then heavily spurred boots stopped before him. The tip of a long sword rested on the earth near his face, dark runes were wrought about it and sorcery… He was so very cold...and fear crept into his heart.

I have you now, Glorfindel of Gondolin, of Imladris. How bright your fire...

He heard Elrohir shouting somewhere away to his left but he could not turn his head. He knew he faced death. Not death to be reborn. But absolute death. And he could do nothing. He tried to turn his head again, strain to see, but could not. He felt their hunger then. They were starving, cold, never able to feed, never replete, always the terrible hunger. He reached, pushed his broken body, shoved away the crushing pain, stretched again for his sword and his fingers just touched it...but it was too far and then the heavy spurred boots were there and a long blade tipped the edge of his own sword and flicked at it so it skidded out of reach.

The booted foot lifted and then pressed down on his neck, crushed the air from his throat, and he could not move.

Your burning light...how warm it is...And I am cold.

Suddenly the deaths of Men seemed so brave, so stupidly courageous and he thought of those who had fought with him, how they had thrown themselves recklessly into danger, knowing there was no rebirth, no Halls however cold...

A scrape of steel as a knife was drawn, the sound resonated, discordant and dull. It reverberated through the rocks that were piled upon him and jarred his teeth and bones. Light glinted bloodily on the short dull blade that came into his view now. Cold, dark sorcery wound about it with spells of Unmaking. A morgul blade. 

This is my end, he thought. He wondered where was Elrohir, and Saeldir. Hoped they had escaped but knew they would not. The tower had fallen upon them and he thought many of his archers, his brave warriors were crushed as he. 

It is indeed your end. 

The thin black shroud fluttered and Nazgûl stood so close that his shadow fell across Glorfindel. Angmar stooped and the empty hood came close to Glorfindel’s inert form.

You despair.

A cold observation. 

Not..true, he replied. I yet have hope.

You fool yourself. There is none.

Angmar leaned towards him, and the morgul blade touched him; he felt the notes of his Song unravel. As the tip pierced his skin, gently, so gently, a long note was pulled from his heart...that was Idril, her hair like spun-gold lifting in the wind. The heart-note was tossed aside carelessly like it did not matter. Blood seeped from the cut as the blade drove a little deeper. The proud memory of Turgon standing in his plumed helm before the gates of Angband, dissipated in the wind. ...Fingolfin... Fingon, his silver-blue banner streaming out. One after another, the precious memories spilled onto the mud and the Nazgûl's iron shod foot ground them into nothing, flickers of light that were washed away...each one gone forever...

There will be nothing. Every memory gone. So useless. I will take my time over killing your body. Watch the blade as I carefully, lightly, gently pierce you…And your soul will leak out, slowly. Until you are quite empty...then I will crush you. I will gather up your soul and devour it...You will not even be a memory.

Glorfindel clung onto his name though air was a thin stream in his lungs for he could not inhale for the heaviness of the rocks upon him and the foot that pressed upon his neck. He watched his own blood trickle onto the dried and cracked leather of the boot. 

I will remember, he told himself, I will not forget Gondolin's silver peal of bells from the high towers at sunset...the blaze of the sun of the peaks of the Mountains…I will not forget her, hair like spun-gold…

But it was hard to remember and he could not think of her name. The morgul blade was ice in his flesh - it was not deep, for Angmar was true to his word and gave in to his sadistic pleasure, prolonging the death for as long as he could. It was so cold, like ice, like his blood was freezing in his veins, and the light of his spirit leaked from the wound like blood, pooled under him where his cheek was pressed into the hard and stony ground. 

And then, from far off a Note sounded, like a clear bell…he heard it and wept for it called his name to himself. I am Glorfindel, Laurëfindessë. I am of the House of the Golden Flower.

It came from the North. 

Let this be Námo, he prayed, My lord, I beg you call my soul to you before these Nazgûl seize me…although this was not how it had been before. The wind tore at the sound, threw it back towards the cold North but through the rushing air, the Note grew. But it was too late for Glorfindel of the House of the Golden Flower. Pain lanced through him, tearing memory, peeling away the notes of his Song, each astra, unravelling his threads and the morgul blade pierced and cold like ice speared his heart. He felt his face was wet and he did not know if it was rain or tears. Or blood.

 

0o0o

 

When the rain had stopped and the thunder clouds tore apart to let the starlight and moonlight in, Elrohir had been standing amongst some of the archers ranged upon the tower whilst the others fired from below. He had been firing blazing arrows down onto the old fortress and hoping to strike one of the Nazgûl’s black robes when one great winged reptile wheeled and swooped low. The Nazgûl riding it tilted its empty hood to look down upon Elrohir where he stood. Moonlight gleamed on the hide of the great winged basilisk, and its huge wings whumped the air.

Rávëyon. Why do you fight?

Swiftly, one after another, images were thrown open before him; Elladan bleeding out the blue light of his fëa into the marshes of Phellanthir, Elrohir himself on his knees before Angmar, head thrown back to expose his own throat to Angmar’s blade, and long black hair trailing behind him.

My lord's willing sacrifice.

And then the darkness of his memories… In the Orcs’ den, searching, the dark tinged with red light, demonic. A cry of agony and the oily darkness sliding round him as he eased himself forwards, Aícanaro in one hand before him. A grunting, panting, growing louder as he approached and an Orc pounding into the limp body before him, a pale breast, tangled yellow cornsilk hair...and then instead, twisting in chains a lithe supple body stretched too far and in agony, with long, long hair and painted skin…

Eru help me, he cried, shoving away the dreadful images that merged one into the other so he watched his mother’s rape, lusted after the Wood Elf, and desired him all the more for the wracking agony of his torture .

My lord will help you. He will give you everything your heart desires ...Everything. Just give him the Ring.

Instead he fired an arrow. It sped upwards, glancing off the smooth silver hide of the beast.

You will come. Soon you will join us.

The Nazgûl steered its beast suddenly upwards and it soared into the sky and for a moment hung there like a falling star. Then suddenly it folded its wings and plummeted, dropped like a falcon speeding down, down, down towards the ancient tower. Elrohir stared at it for a moment and then realised its intention. 

‘Jump!’ he shouted to the other archers gathered on the tower. ‘It’s going to crash into us!’ He grabbed one of the nearby archers and dragged him as he leapt from the tower and rolled forwards just as the huge basilisk crashed into the tower. There was a terrible thundering rumble and rocks and stones splintered and crashed down as the tower broke asunder and masonry tumbled down upon the Elves below. 

Elrohir hit the ground heavily, felt the air thumped out of his lungs and gasped. But he had no time to lie there and collect himself for he knew the Nazgûl were gathering.

He staggered to his feet. The dust was thick in spite of the wetness of the earth. The archer he had dragged with him was sprawled on the ground groaning but scrambled awkwardly to his feet, bow clasped in his hand.

Other archers were pulling themselves from the rubble when suddenly all around them, the dreadful winged lizards were dropping out the sky and landing with earth-pounding thumps on the ground. Slowly, one by one, the Nazgûl emerged from the shadows. Guttering firelight glinted on old and ancient broadswords wrapped about with spells and sorcery, and the runes seemed to writhe horribly upon the iron blades.

Aícanaro hissed, power blazing through the hilt and the red jewels in the hilt glittered like eyes. Elrohir felt the burn in the palm of his hand and clasped the sword. The dark runes that wound about the blade seemed lit, molten and poured over the blade for it had fed on the blood of its enemies and was powerful. He breathed hard, glaring at the Nazgûl. 'I will slay you all!' he declared defiantly and lifting Aícanaro high in both hands, he led the charge.

The Nazgûl responded with their own charge and broke upon the remaining Elves like a dark tide, the edges of their black robes seemed to dissolve into black smoke which coiled and twisted about like serpents and grew thicker as if they fed on the fear of the Elves who fought them.

Elrohir was aware of Saeldir launching into battle alongside him. For a second he wondered where was Glorfindel. Then the clang of swords resounded through the ruins and an ancient broadsword met Aícanaro, parried and slid along the thirsty blade until it broke free. He threw himself at the Nazgûl, battering their swords, whirling and kicking out where he could, seeking the weakness, hoping to strike a blow through the armour to strike the wraiths themselves for Aícanaro to work its own dark sorcery.

Aícanaro hissed in wild delight and struck and thrust at the Nazgûl, blades clashed and clanged and slid off one blade to meet with another. They were strong and old the Nazgûl and cursed indeed, but slowly the Elves were beaten back. 

Elrohir pivoted on one foot and kicked hard, his foot meeting old armour and the Wraith staggered back and then hurled forwards. But as it raised its sword, Elrohir suddenly caught a glint of golden hair. Glorfindel lay half crushed beneath a fall of rocks. His sword lay just out of Glorfindel’s reach for his fingers scrabbled weakly at the dirt but he was truly trapped beneath the rocks and could not free himself. Elrohir had just enough awareness to duck as the Nazgûl brought its blade sweeping in a wide arc where his head had been. But he dodged around the Nazgûl to see a tall figure standing over Glorfindel, darkness seemed to cling to it and an iron crown spiked the air. Angmar. 

Horrified, Elrohir hauled Aícanaro around and clanged against the iron armour of the Nazgûl but his feet slipped treacherously on the wet mud and he crashed to his knees. He saw the WitchKing lift an iron-shod foot and press it upon Glorfindel's neck. Glorfindel's eyes were closed and he did not move again.

The WitchKing turned his empty hood towards Elrohir and fiery light lit his iron crown. Give me the Ring. Give It to me and I shall spare Glorfindel of Gondolin, of Imladris.

In Angmar’s thin bony hand was a blade that did not reflect the light but seemed to swallow it. A morgul blade.

'Glorfindel!' Elrohir gasped and with a cry, he scrambled to his feet. A burst of crimson power flooded the length of Aícanaro and burst upon the blades of first one Wraith and then the other, the ancient swords wrought about with power and sorcery met Aícanaro head on and sparks flew into the darkness like cinders. Aícanaro sang in Elrohir’s hand, quivered and flashed. He swung high and fast and came down again against the Nazgûl blades, and then one dark-robed Wraith swung his own sword beneath Elrohir's raised arm and there was a searing pain and warmth. 

Khamûl. Somehow he knew it was Angmar’s cruel lieutenant. 

Rávëyon, why do you fight us? Only we understand. Give us the Ring. Which of you has it? If you give it to us my Lord will bestow such greatness upon you...You will have your gift, your yôzâira.’

Yôzâira? Gift of Longing, gift of desire. His gift? Sauron’s gift…

…Long, pale gold hair streamed down around it…Ah! Eru…He almost cried out for the lust that flared and ignited in his loins and the shame that blazed in his heart…But this flat-bellied, lean hipped figure was absolutely male and around the pale skin that was already marked with blood, was a shape painted onto the skin, a wild whirl of colour and abstract… The sound of a lash against flesh cracked and a muffled cry made him jerk and pulse with desire.

Do you not yet know? 

Khamûl actually seemed amused, he tilted his empty hood slightly and regarded Elrohir. And then it struck Elrohir with such force he was rocked on his feet...the same gesture he had seen in Legolas. That light tilt of his head, inviting, his long hair sliding over his shoulder, conscious of its effect, of its eroticism, knowing how it would inflame, knowing how he seduced with the firelight sliding over the pale gold…

He staggered backwards. 'No,' he said firmly. 'You are wrong. And I am not yours, will never be!’

Khamûl laughed, a horrible grating sound like fingernails on glass and Elrohir stepped away again. 

Then we will take Glorfindel of Gondolin's soul instead for we will have our revenge. And we will still take Ash Nazg from you, him…whoever. We have you all. 

Then the wraith screamed and forced its hideous face into his and its jaw dropped open so he could see the teeth, and nothing else for a moment, and then eyes, pale and burning, and so hungry.

Elrohir sprang away and again felt the slide of steel against his flesh. He whirled around and two-handed, railed against his enemy, his sword clashed against the deadly blade and he struggled, pushed hard and then tore back and swung to meet the other two Nazgûl broadswords again. He furiously rained blows upon his enemies, Aícanaro struck and struck again blindly, instinctively and but he felt himself slowly pressed back and knew that they were being beaten back. 

He saw from the corner of his eye that one of the Nazgûl’s hideous winged beasts alit upon the pile of rubble under which Glorfindel was buried. Another  
was scrambling clumsily over the rubble towards him. Elrohir’s heart sank. Even if Glorfindel still lived, and he had not moved since he tried to reach his sword, he could not escape and Elrohir would not reach him.

The great lizard waddled and crawled towards Glorfindel, the tall figure of Angmar seemed to beckon it onwards when suddenly a figure leapt into its path and plunged a blade towards the creature's throat. Saeldir! It clawed frantically at the air, tearing at the ramparts and wailing terribly. But it was not a fatal blow and the beast now hurled itself towards Saeldir, its long serpentine neck stretched towards the Elf and weaving its eyeless head, lipless mouth snapping. Saeldir lifted his sword then and struck one more blow, striking right through the sinuous neck and the beast thrashed wildly, like a snake, rearing back and clawing at the air. Saeldir hung onto his sword but was thrown back and forth like a rag and finally the beast clawed at the blade in its neck and swiped at Saeldir. He was thrown against the walls and lay sprawled at an awkward angle, and did not move.

Above the Elves the huge circling shapes of the remaining Nazgûls’ winged steeds dived and swooped over the few Elves left fighting upon the cold hilltop.

Now there were Orcs clambering over the ruined walls again, knives glinting in their teeth as they scrambled over the rocks and stones, and hatred in their mad yellow eyes. For the first time in a long, long while, Elrohir was afraid. They must have defeated Tindómion, Galdor and they had overrun Amon Sûl.

He heard a Note, on the wind from the West. This is the end, he thought. This must be how Námo calls. But I have not made my Choice and I do not know which Way to go. But the Note grew and rang like a deep, clear bell that called to his blood and he turned his head at the same time that Khamûl turned his empty hood towards the sound. But where the Nazgûl seemed to hesitate and quail, Aícanaro thrummed with its own incipient power now like it heard a clarion call to arms.

He struggled to his feet and saw that the Orcs were looking about in fear and crouching and that the Nazgûl were agitated. 

And then a white blur leapt over the crumbling walls and landed amongst the Orcs with flying hooves and teeth that crunched down on bone. Asfaloth tore into the Orcs, kicking and biting. A warrior was astride him, striking at Orcs left and then right with a long white sword that glittered. A long black plume of horsehair streamed behind him and his helm clasped his face like cupped hands. Armour moved with him, sinuous and mobile as fish scales, it glittered and shone, seemed to drink the starlight and shine it back ten times as bright. He seemed like Eärendil himself so bright he was. The long white sword smashed into the Orcs and they fled. Then other horses leapt the walls and followed Asfaloth, pivoting and striking with front hooves and rear. There was Annael upon a dappled grey horse and striking left and right. There was Galdor too and other warriors from both Imladris and Mithlond followed.

The Nazgûl shrieked and sped towards Asfaloth but the strange warrior pulled the horse about and halted, simply waited as Angmar strode towards him. Asfaloth stood stock still, pawed the ground once and tossed his beautiful head so his mane flowed long over his proud arched neck. They shone brilliant in the starlight and it seemed that Eärendil had paused in his voyage through the night and the light of the Silmaril itself poured upon them. The warrior let his sword point downwards and both he and Asfaloth looked towards the approaching Nazgûl. Behind them, the Orcs were scrambling away from the fierce blades of Galdor and his men and horses. But the Nazgûl gathered behind Angmar and it seemed to Elrohir that time slowed.

Angmar raised his sword on one hand and in the other was a morgul blade. Blood dripped from the blade. Glorfindel’s. A drop slowly slid along the blade and hung trembling at the tip for a moment, and then dropped, splashed and pooled on the earth.

Asfaloth charged.

Behind them, Galdor turned from his pursuit of the Orcs and raised his sword and followed. Elrohir lifted Aícanaro in fury at Glorfindel’s fall and joined them.

Great hoofs beat upon the earth as Asfaloth charged and the warrior raised his sword; it seemed to catch the starlight and glowed. Angmar gathered his Brethren about him and they became Darkness, pierced by the glint of iron swords. Horses broke upon the Dark like a wave, crashing through it and the warriors slashed down with their swords, the horses turned and lashed out with hooves, though their nostrils flared with fear and their eyes rolled, but they followed Asfaloth as the men had followed Glorfindel. A globe of light seemed to shield Asfaloth and his rider so the skulls of the Nazgûl were illuminated, their stretched and elongated jaws open and screaming as if the light itself hurt. 

The Nazgûl shrieked and their long robes stretched into coils of darkness, reaching and twisting about Asfaloth and the stranger, but he merely touched it with his sword the poured with the light of Eärendil and shrieking into the Night, the Nazgûl fled.


	22. Vanwë

Thanks to those who are still reading, and especially to those who review. It always encourages me to write.

Thanks too to Spiced Wine for the loan of her character, Tindómion.

Beta: As always the very wonderful Anarithilen.

Chapter 22: The Lost.

For a moment Asfaloth and his rider were still, standing in the brilliant pooled light of Eärendil, looking into the sky where the Nazgûl's winged lizards had leapt ponderously into the air and their huge serrated wings thumped against the wind. Their hoarse bellows receded further and further away, until there was no sound from either Nazgûl or their steeds.

They had gone. How, he did not know but the glorious warrior and Asfaloth still stood in the diamond brightness of the Silmarils, light during from his sword, from his helm. Angmar, the WitchKing who had du his claws deeply into Elrohir, who had pierced Glorfindel with a morgul blade in his desperation for the Ring, had fled.

Vanquished.

There was absolute silence for a moment and then, slowly, it seemed to Elrohir then that the Song ebbed back; it became distinct, audible where it was only ever a slow rhythm of his heartbeat, or in the pulse of his blood and the breath of his lungs. And he marvelled that he could hear it now: it began with a slow and utterly beautiful melody that threaded its way through the air and then mingled with others. He found tears pricking at his eyes and his heart soaring for joy though he had no words to describe it. The Songs of the Elves and the horses merged with the slow harmonies that were trees and even the hilltop itself, the metallic chime of the stars, everything wound together as one Great Song that was amplified, so the huge chords and streams of sound rose up around him, caught him in its uplift and he could not speak or move so spellbound was he by its beauty. It had been there all the while, he realised, but it was as if he had been asleep and just awoken to all the brilliance and sounds of Arda.

He was not the only one to be standing in silent wonder. All around him, the Elves stood lost in bewildered awe and the horses too had their heads up and ears flickering as they listened. Elrohir saw that the stranger had turned and looked at them for a moment and it seemed to Elrohir that he was the reason they could hear the Song, as if he somehow amplified it and he thought perhaps that was what had driven off the Nazgûl; that somehow the stranger and his sword had brought harmony where the Nazgûl were Discord. He must be one of the Valar, thought Elrohir at first. Surely it is Oromë?

'Come,' spoke the warrior to the men who followed him. 'You have driven evil from this hilltop and now it is free once again. Let it become Amon Sûl once more, the Watchtower of Arnor in the war that is coming.' His deep, rich voice resonated within Elrohir's breast, so compelling that had he but asked once, Elrohir would have followed him to Mordor itself. 'Let it stand against the Nazgûl and guard the approaches to the West. Clear it of the carrion that sullies it and raise it up once more. ' Proudly now the Mithlond and Imladrian elves who had ridden into the fortress with him dispersed, greeting their comrades with relief and looking about to start the hard work of cleansing the fortress. Their horses wandered off to nose each other and crop the short grass.

But Asfaloth walked forwards, his proud head low; he whickered softly and in distress, stopping where Glorfindel lay crushed beneath the pile of rocks, still and unmoving. The horse dropped his nose to his beloved lord and snuffed at his golden hair that was fanned across his face while the stranger dismounted and knelt one knee on the ground beside Glorfindel.

He moved Glorfindel's hair to gaze down upon his face. 'Laurëfindessë?' he said wonderingly and touched his cheek lightly with his still gauntleted hand. 'I heard that he had returned, but I did not believe it.'

Looking over the strange warrior's shoulder, Elrohir saw that Glorfindel's face was deathly pale. White. As if all the blood had been drained from his body. An intense weight lay heavily in his chest, as though it were him beneath the rubble. He half staggered forwards in shock, realising that he was not alone and that other elves had turned towards Glorfindel now in concern, hardly daring to breath themselves in dreadful anticipation.

The stranger reached in and touched Glorfindel's throat where a tiny bruised cut pierced his skin and the blood had dried on the earth beneath like some sacrifice. He spoke again, not loudly but his voice was compelling and urgent. 'He lives but barely. Quickly, help me to remove these rocks.'

As if a spell had been broken, Elrohir threw himself beside the warrior and began hauling the stones from around Glorfindel. Suddenly there were other hands there and carefully the stones were removed until gradually Glorfindel's battered body was revealed. Elrohir scanned him quickly, feeling trepidation for even though he lived, his body was so broken that he wondered if they could even move him. And then there was the wound from the morgul blade itself- which had bled so little but which had still been enough to cut the fëa from the body. But looking at him now, Elrohir could believe that Glorfindel's soul might have already fled.

'Gently my friends,' Annael was there now too and hovering anxiously as Glorfindel's bruised and broken body was carefully lifted and carried out of the rubble. Annael guided them to a sheltered place near the walls that had somehow escaped the destruction wreaked by the Nazgûl's terrible lizards.

Annael threw his own cloak upon the ground so that Glorfindel might be laid upon it and others immediately followed suit. 'Someone get a fire going from those ashes!' he said urgently as they lay Glorfindel's body down as gently as they possibly could, like a precious and fragile treasure so careful were they.

The strange warrior leaned down and touched the ashes of a dead fire that had been put out by the rain, and instantly they flared into life. Then he stood aside while they lay Glorfindel tenderly upon the piled cloaks and made him comfortable.

The stranger had not yet taken off his helm and the flames from the fire leapt and glowed on the beautifully wrought helm; the long finely etched cheek-guards were like hands cupping a beloved face, and the plume that flowed from the crest was a long, black horse's tail. Helms had not been made like this for two Ages, Elrohir thought and could not help but stare. The stranger was Noldor certainly, but Elrohir had only ever seen one set of armour like this and that was Erestor's, and his was not as fine as this man's: he wore only greaves and vambraces, cuirass and helm as Elrohir himself, but the light armour was mithril perhaps wrought so thinly and so finely it seemed fluid, more like silk than metal.

Elrohir wanted to touch it but thought that somehow this man was as likely to have his sword at Elrohir's throat for daring to touch him as not. He had come to their aid but he seemed beyond them somehow; he was quiet at the moment and aiding them but if taken unawares, could become intensely dangerous. Like Erestor.

And then Elrohir realised. 'I have seen you once,' he said in sudden recognition, astonishment. 'Upon the Hithaeglir. You passed me like a ghost.'

The warrior smiled slightly as he pulled off the gauntlets he wore that were edged with five pointed stars. 'I have sometimes walked in those Mountains,' he said quietly. 'And sometimes in the Eastern deserts. Or the great ice caps of the North.' But there was such a world of loneliness in those words that Elrohir's chest tightened.

'And you are one of the Sons of Thunder,' said the man, looking up. His eyes were silver grey and like mithril in their mercurial gleam. This warrior must have seen the light of the Trees before they were destroyed by Morgoth, Elrohir realised. This meant he had crossed the Helcaraxë… Or sailed with Fëanor.

'I have heard of your valour,' he said. Elrohir ducked his head, for revenge and horror were the cause of his valorous deeds, and shame cringed in his heart.

But as if the warrior knew, understood, he reached out and touched Elrohir lightly on the cheek. 'Blood of Finwë,' he murmured softly. 'You have the look of him,' said the stranger and there such longing in his voice that Elrohir lifted his eyes and stared. The stranger smiled at the wonder on Elrohir's face. 'And now you look like your father when he was very young,' he said and this time, there was no doubt about the yearning.

Elrohir felt a strange excited shiver down his spine and the hairs on his neck stood on end. A tingling in his fingers and neck at the possibilities. 'You know my father?' he asked cautiously.

The warrior smiled very gently in memory and the slightest sigh escaped his lips. 'Long ago. In his childhood. He was always a healer - he tried to heal everyone even then.' He glanced down at where Saeldir as kneeling beside Glorfindel with tears on his face. Gently, he and Annael began to wipe Glorfindel's hands and face so they were clean of blood and stroke his hair back from his face. Their hands hovered over the light wound in his throat where the morgul blade had pierced.

'Such a little wound,' cried Annael in despair. 'If only we had broken through sooner!' He turned his face up to the stranger. 'You have our thanks, my lord. Without you we could not have driven off the Nazgûl in time to save him.'

The warrior pulled his helm from his head. Long, long very straight black hair streamed down his back to his waist. High cheekbones, full lips. A beautiful face, but full of memory and loss.

'We must rid him of that shard of the morgul blade,' the warrior was saying. He looked at Annael appraisingly, and then the wounded Saeldir. 'Who are the healers amongst you?' He turned his head to gaze at Elrohir astutely. 'You have your father's Power?'

'Some,' replied Elrohir. And then he added, for it was true, 'Although I am too immersed in blood for the true healing he has.'

There was a wry grunt, and Elrohir thought that perhaps this strange Elf from the First Age felt the same as he.

'Athelas will help.' As soon as the warrior spoke, Saeldir tutted at himself and fumbled in his tunic and others ran off to rummage through the packs left strewn on the ground by the devastation wrought by the Nazgûl's beasts. In no time there were several packs of athelas thrust towards Elrohir for every Elf carried it. Annael turned and sent someone off to fetch water from the stream below the hill and then he set the anxious, watching men back to work, clearing the devastation, collecting their dead, piling the bodies of Orcs and Wargs.

The stranger crouched beside Glorfindel and looked down, his face hidden from Elrohir now. He probed the single wound in Glorfindel's chest and easily removed the shard of the morgul blade as if it had been a stone in a horse's hoof. It flipped onto the stony ground and the stranger stood and carefully pushed it aside with his boot.

'Do not touch that,' said the man with a hard look at the shard. 'Do not let anyone else touch it either.' He glanced at Saeldir and Annael, then he crouched again beside Glorfindel and firmly probed the wound. A little more blood leaked from the cut, but there was black bile too that oozed thickly. Elrohir did not want to touch it for the dark corruption of the morgul blade was still lodged there and the memory of Angmar's own touch upon Elrohir was raw and too recent to ignore.

But the strange warrior was still looking down at Glorfindel; he held out his own hand, palm upwards towards Elrohir. 'Give me your Power,' he said softly, firmly. 'I need it to shape the Song for healing now, and not destruction.'

Elrohir baulked for a moment; it was not only in horror of Angmar's corrupting stroke upon his memory, his rifling though Elrohir's secret desires, but he also remembered the last time another had used his power. The brutal force with which Elrond had used him to heal Elladan had been raw and agonising, but he had not minded that, not for Elladan.

And is not Glorfindel also deserving of your healing? The silver-grey gaze of the strange Elf met his, not challenging, but demanding, and somehow it felt a rightful demand.

Elrohir placed his hand trustingly in his.

There was a moment when their eyes met and Elrohir was suddenly intensely aware of the bustle and business of the camp. As though all sounds were amplified, and the colours intensified. Movement seemed somehow larger, clearer. Elves were clearing up, throwing the bodies of Orcs and hefting those of Wargs into a huge pile to burn, carefully pulling the bodies of the archers from the rubble that had buried Glorfindel.

The strange Elf smiled slightly and clasped Elrohir's hands in his, pressed them together like a prayer.

This is for Glorfindel. The words formed in his mind and he stared. Then he simply let his hands lie in those of the stranger and gave himself over to him.

He did not see the knowing and thoughtful look the warrior gave him. All he felt was the warmth of those hands upon his as they touched the fatal wound. Everything else disappeared; there was only him, and the stranger. Slowly, a fierce white heat grew in the palm of his hands that did not burn. His own crimson power leapt up from his belly in response, wanting to meet that intense white energy head on; crimson power surged along the nerves of his arms, hands, fingers, raw and tempestuous like a storm for he could only wield it like a weapon. It burst upon the white heat in a crescendo, smashed into it. But the white energy simply opened and curled around the crimson like a welcome, like love, bathed it in its brilliance and light so the crimson hurt and fury was gentled and calmed, smoothed and shaped into something else entirely.

There was that Note again - a single note, like a bell that rang from somewhere deep and faraway, lost in memory, lost in time. He felt it resonate in his bones and his blood and felt his face was wet for all that had been lost. Another note joined it and another until a melody was strung together, a harmony that was lovelier than any song Elrohir had ever heard played in Imladris. He felt a great peace descend not only on him but the hilltop. Sounds ceased and the other men fell silent and still and merely listened.

Elrohir suddenly wanted his father, so he could embrace him, find that warmth and solace that they had for that moment after they healed Elladan. He longed for his father, his brother with an intensity that he had never felt before and knew then that his own feelings were merging with those of the stranger: he had lost everything. And he grieved for the loss of everyone he had ever loved. Ever.

Like a star in space, his loneliness was all encompassing and Elrohir wanted to run from it before he was lost. It was standing on the brink of the Night, seeing yourself as utterly insignificant, a mere speck in the universe. Knowing that it was only time before you stepped off the ledge and plunged into the Eternal Night. The Dark.

Elrohir covered his mouth with his free hand to stifle a scream and squeezed his eyes closed against the pitiless horror. He needed to escape this. He needed to run along the snow, where eagles cried and the stars were hard and bright in the sky. He needed to bury his head in long hair pale as wintergrass and smelling of meadow hay. He needed to sink into the grey forest stream than gushed over grey slate and moss and pooled in the shady pools where ferns grew green and lush…

Instead he was teetering on the edge of the Night and …falling…

'Come back.' A compelling voice he would die for spoke as if from far away and long ago. It summoned him back to himself and guided him to awareness. Slowly he blinked and looked up into the immense compassion of the stranger. Those grey eyes held the light now lost to the world forever, and were full of deep grief. His hand rested gently upon Elrohir's shoulder. 'You are with me, Elrohir Elrondion,' he said with gentle kindness. 'You are safe.'

Elrohir gulped air and leaned over slightly.

He was aware of a murmur of concern from Annael and Saeldir, and hands under his elbows, lowering him to the ground, warmth as a cloak was thrown around his shoulders where he sat, shaken from the expenditure of such immense energy.

'Take care of Elrohir,' the stranger said to Annael quietly. 'He will be disorientated and confused for a while.'

Then there was a sudden retching gasp nearby and Elrohir looked up dazedly to see that Glorfindel suddenly gasped for breath.

There were cries of astounded joy, and Annael and Saeldir fell to their knees beside Glorfindel, taking his hands carefully and touching his face to reassure themselves that he did indeed live. There was purple bruising where the blade had pierced him but the darkness of the wound had gone.

Elrohir stared in wonder. 'How…how did you…?'

The stranger was wiping his hands on an old cloth that he had brought out from somewhere. He threw it on the ground and Elrohir's astonished eyes followed it. It was stained with blood and black bile. 'Angmar had not killed him. He did not drive it deep. Too busy savouring the moment.' He crouched beside Glorfindel and lifted his head so he could drip miruvor onto Glorfindel's lips from the flask that Annael offered.

'It was you who saved him.' He flashed a smile at Elrohir that blazed in Elrohir's heart, it gave a thump of joy. 'You threw off Angmar's spell.'

I would die for this man, he thought. I will follow him anywhere. It was not love in the romantic sense, no. But love nevertheless. Elrohir stared in absolute adoration.

'You came from the West in the First Age.' he said wonderingly. 'You have the light of the Trees in your eyes. Your armour is Fëanorian.'

A wince of pain crossed the man's face fleetingly. 'I came from the West,' he agreed, giving Elrohir an oblique look. 'But I can never go back.'

He smiled down at Glorfindel and Elrohir followed his gaze to see that Glorfindel's blue eyes were wide open in absolute shock and regarded the stranger. 'Some have called me Hecilo,' the stranger continued with a wry smile, still looking at Glorfindel. 'But I prefer to be called Vanwë.'

The Lost, thought Elrohir. It was fitting indeed. 'Vanwë seems more polite than Hecilo,' he agreed softly. Better Lost than Outcast.

The warrior, Vanwë, glanced up at Elrohir as if he had forgotten he was there.

'Come back with me,' Elrohir pleaded suddenly. 'Come to Imladris. My father will welcome you.'

Vanwë turned away quickly but Elrohir had already seen that his eyes were bright and full of yearning. 'Please,' he begged. 'You don't know how…lonely he is sometimes.' He felt a jolt at the truth of his own words for he had not truly realised it until now. 'How it would please him to know, to see you. Just once.'

Vanwë winced and closed his eyes briefly. Steeling himself. 'And then? When Imladris divides against me, for me? Where does your father stand then?' He shook his head and looked first at Glorfindel and smiled very gently at him, and then raised his eyes to Elrohir and gazed at him with love. 'I will not do that, not to him. Not to you.'

'For him then? Just once. He will come here. Meet with him?'

'No. It would not be enough. I have hunger enough to devour the world.' He reached out and touched Elrohir's cheek. 'You have given me hope. Love. Sustenance enough for the famine ahead.' Vanwë leaned in to him and said softly, with immense kindness, 'Forgive me, child. Do not speak of me to him. Do not give him hope where there is none.' White power, energy warmed him where Vanwë touched him, smoothed itself through his nerves and curled about his wounded crimson power, warmed him right down to his belly, and cradled him like a child.

He found himself huddled into the cloak that Anneal had thrown around his shoulders and pressed into Vanwë's chest, like a child. A low murmur of a song wound about him, soothed him and lulled him. He felt himself slowly relax against this man, and remembered how hard a battle had been fought, how he had been so close to Angmar, how Khamûl had taunted him, that his unclean lust corrupted him. And yet Vanwë still accepted him.

There was a thrilling of his heartstrings like he had been called, understood, and tears streamed down his face for the love, the understanding. He was cherished. He was accepted. Elrohir's dark lust and secrets did not matter to Vanwë, the helico, for he was reviled and loved in equal measure. He found himself leaning against Saeldir, passed from one warrior to another like a sleepy child and watched through heavy eyes as Vanwë crouched beside Glorfindel, and placed his hand upon Glorfindel's shoulder. Glorfindel's eyes were wide with shock, and recognition. Vanwë leaned down, whispered secret words in the Elf lord's ear. And Elrohir, though he forced himself to waken and be alert, could not hear what was said.

But he could see how Glorfindel closed his eyes and shook his head slightly.

Vanwë whispered again, more urgently and this time, Glorfindel nodded once, carefully for he must have hurt in every bone, in every ligament and tendon of his body.

Glorfindel whispered something, and Vanwë had to lean right down to catch the words. He frowned and his lips parted in disbelief, then urgently questioned Glorfindel more.

At that very moment that there was a clatter of hooves trotting through the gap where the old gateway had once been. It was even more ruined since the Nazgûl had driven their huge winged reptiles through the old fort. Elrohir turned and smiled tiredly, euphoric with utter relief that his friend lived, for it was Tindómion. Tindómion's face was filled with joy as he greeted the Elves that gathered about him and he caught Elrohir's eyes upon him and lifted his hand in greeting.

Elrohir leaned heavily on Saeldir and struggled to his feet. But as he turned, he saw that Vanwë had half risen to his feet, hand stretched out towards Tindómion and his face was raw and so vulnerable, full of loss and disbelief and yearning.

'Nelyo…' he whispered.

For a moment it seemed that Vanwë could not tear his eyes away from Tindómion, and then, there was a flicker of doubt. He froze. And then it seemed to Elrohir that there was a moment of shocked recognition.

Quickly as if burned, he pulled his hand back down and sat hunched over Glorfindel and pulled his cloak over his shoulders. It seemed to Elrohir that he almost disappeared from view. Suddenly the warrior who had ridden to their rescue on Asfaloth, who had charged the Nazgûl shining as if he wore the Silmaril itself in his helm, was an ordinary wayfarer who they might have passed with no more than a casual greeting. Elrohir himself was no stranger to a glamour, a veil over which the eyes of others could skip and see what they expected, but he could not understand why Vanwë might want to melt away now when all wanted to fete him and sing his praises.

For a moment, Vanwë sat silent and still while all the excitement and bustle passed around him. He laid a hand over Glorfindel's eyes and the wounded Elf lord seemed to fall into a deep sleep. Then he rose to his feet and glanced at Elrohir. 'I am glad to have met you, Ravéyön, son of Thunder. And mayhap our paths will cross again some time.' He looked away and without the blaze of his eyes upon him, Elrohir thought again how the old cloak made him look unprepossessing and unremarkable. Already the other elves were looking over him, through him, seemed to have forgotten him almost. Elrohir felt a terrible loss, a tragedy and reached out.

At his touch, Vanwë froze.

He pulled his cloak about himself and rested his finger upon his mouth. It was a shockingly familiar gesture and Elrohir realised that he had seen Elrond do the same. 'Forget me now,' he said and leaned over and kissed Elrohir on his brow…And then he was striding away between the stones, his drab cloak flowing and his dark hair straight down his back. He reached he wall and leapt lightly over it, disappearing into the dark.

0o0o

tbc.

Note: Tindómion is Spiced Wine's character whom she has kindly leant me.

In case you had not guessed it, of course Vanwë is a name Maglor has adopted to disguise his true identity. If you are not familiar with the Silmarillion, Maglor is the second son of Fëanor and of course, Maedhros' brother. Maedhros' family name is Nelyo. And he has just seen Tindómion, his son, who in my verse looks very like Nelyo/Maedhros. When the two brothers attacked Sirion to take the Silmaril from Elwing (rightfully in my view:) she jumped into the sea with the Silmaril but leaving her two children behind. Maedhros and Maglor took the boys, Elrond and Elros of course, firstly as hostages (I imagine) and then came to love them deeply. They had already sent the boys off to Cirdan or Gil-Galad when the Silmarils were recovered and they took them back (not stole them in my verse.) So Elrond sees Maglor as his true father.


	23. Tindómion

Note: Tindómion is Spiced Wine’s character, son of Maglor. In Spiced’s story Maglor forced Fanari, Tindómion’s mother although she had always been in love with him. In Spiced’ s great fics, Tindómion has sworn an oath to avenge her and to kill his father. In this fic, I have Maglor having heard the stories about Tindómion but for his own complicated reasons, shame, denial but also because he would be the victor and so have to defeat his own son, or his own son become a kinslayer –guilty of patricide, he will not acknowledge or meet with Tindómion.

Thanks to Spiced Wine for the loan.

 

*Gildor was the Elf who met Frodo in the Shire at the start of LOTR. He is described as one of the wandering companies of Elves.

Beta: The very generous and fabulous Anarithilen. Thank you for sticking with me.

 

Chapter 23: Tindómion 

The Moon was low in the sky as morning approached, though it was still dark as Tindómion led his small troop through what had once been the arched gateway to the old fortress of Amon Sûl. Now there were just heaps of rubble where the Nazgûl had driven their beasts, bringing down the ancient watch tower. 

Within the fortress’ crumbled and ruined walls were numerous small fires that lit the clearing and pushed the edges of the dark to beyond the walls. Little knots of the wounded warriors clustered about the fires, some bandaged or leaning on one another, but there was an air of excitement and they turned with welcoming cries to greet Tindómion’s small troop. Most warriors were busy and the camp was noisy and bustling. Orc carcasses were being dragged into a huge pile ready for burning and horses had been gathered at the far end, away from the blood and death. Their heads were low and many stood resting one hoof, tails switching at imaginary flies, for in spite of the carrion it was mercifully cold. 

He spotted Elrohir talking to an unremarkable man whom he did not recognise. Tindómion frowned, confused, for he was sure the man had not been amongst the Mithlond elves. Yet something leapt in his blood, some strange sense of recognition. But he found it strangely difficult to hold an image of the man’s face. 

He turned back to his men. ‘Go, take care of our horses first,’ he told them. ‘And then yourselves. I will report to Glorfindel.’

Tindómion turned back towards Elrohir again, intending to greet him first. The stranger to whom Elrohir had been talking was striding off quickly, purposefully.

‘Tindómion!’ A welcoming cry distracted him then and Saeldir limped towards him, leaning heavily on a crutch, a bloody bandage about his arm.

Tindómion pulled a wry smile. ’You have been careless,’ he said. Saeldir grinned back. Annael too, he saw with relief, was with the rest of the horses. He could not see Glorfindel but as commander, he was likely to be amongst the Elves gathered about near one end, below the fallen tower. Galdor was there.

‘To be honest, I was not sure we were even going to make it,’ Saeldir confessed, clasping Tindómion’s arm. ‘We were besieged and failing until help arrived, unlooked for and unexpected.’ He cast a quick glance towards Elrohir, who stood now, staring after the stranger to whom he had been talking. The man leapt lightly over the low wall towards the woods. 

‘Who is that?’ he asked, frowning slightly, for the stranger soon was lost amongst the trees.

‘Our help unlooked for,’ said Saeldir softly. Saeldir’s gaze followed the strange elf’s path and it seemed to Tindómion there was regret in Saeldir’s eyes.

A strange and deep unease crept over Tindómion as the stranger disappeared, like he had missed something. He shook his head slightly. ‘One of Gildor’s folk? Perhaps taking messages between the wandering companies?’ He shrugged for those folk were strange to him, never settling in one place or another but lingering, tarrying a while before they sailed. To him it felt like a sort of fading. ’Did he come in with Galdor and Annael?’ Tindómion walked slowly to allow Saeldir to limp slowly alongside him. 

‘He did,’ Saeldir agreed. He was silent for a moment and seemed almost reluctant to speak more. Then he said, ‘How relieved was I to see them, they arrived just in the very nick of time.’ He laughed mirthlessly. ‘A moment later and it would have been too late. But come, tell me what happened with you once you left us.’

Tindómion resisted offering Saeldir his arm to lean on for he was proud and would not wish that, but his steps were slow and painful. ‘My small troop made our way swiftly to the narrow cleft where we had left the horses, but of course they had gone. The beasts had flown down upon them and chased them from the gully into the woods, but our sensible horses had led the beasts a merry dance, weaving through the trees and keeping under cover. There is much damage in the woods below,’ he said remembering the huge old oaks that had been smashed by the heavy beasts as the horses fled before them.

‘I sent the archers ahead and up into the trees and then the rest of us attempted to draw as many of the beasts as we could away from here and towards the hidden archers. We bombarded them with arrows as they swooped overhead, focused on the horses and us of course… Those foul creatures are hard to kill.’ He sighed, remembering the terrible pursuit, the charge through the trees with the huge lizards in pursuit. Two of the beasts now lay in the forest, their huge carcasses would be carrion for many weeks. But the rest had escaped, returned back to Amon Sûl to attack the depleted forces that stayed with Glorfindel to fight the Nazgûl. ‘After that we heard a skirmish and knew that the Orcs had taken prisoners…’ He was silent for a moment, remembering the terrible screams and the sight of the mutilated Elf. ‘Galdor was already there and once we joined him it did not take long to dispatch that group of Orcs… but there were so many. It felt like a slow tide pressing down on us.’

‘By then the Orcs had surrounded us too,’ Saeldir observed. ‘We really did not think we were going to survive until Annael turned up with his force. ‘You stayed to fight the Orcs from below, amongst the trees?’

‘Yes. I took a very small group of horsemen who would be able to move very quickly and strike, punch holes in the Orcs’ ranks,’ Tindómion said matter-of-factly. ‘Annael and Galdor returned to you. They took all the other horses so it would appear that there were more warriors than there were.’ He looked about the old fortress with grim satisfaction. ‘And they seem to have been very effective.’

He glanced at Saeldir who grunted but said nothing. He seemed to concentrate on walking; his breathing was harsh and labored and he leaned very heavily on the crutch which Tindómion now saw was hastily made from the haft of an Orcish spear. Then he said with disgust, ’These foul beasts stink worse than the cesspit at Bree.’ 

Indeed the beast stank. Its flesh already smelt like a rotting corpse though its blood had only stilled a little while ago. Tindómion looked at it in revulsion; the head was more wormlike than serpent, a slow worm perhaps with that revolting silver smoothness gleaming. He grimaced. 

‘How many have we lost?’ he asked, for the Elves who had fallen beneath the tower, or been killed by Orcs, had already been carefully laid out upon the muddy ground upon cloaks, as if keeping them dry might somehow make their rest easier. They were laid out in a line.

Saeldir gestured to where two warriors lay at the end of line of bodies, eyes closed and hands folded over their swords which lay upon their breasts. ’Rothgalon and Lominion.’ Saeldir knelt beside them and stroked the hair back from Lomion’s still face. 

Tindómion looked down in pity and sorrow; the rest were all Elves from Mithlond. One man had been wrapped tenderly in a rich cloak that Tindómion recognized as Galdor’s own. He leaned in a little to peer more closely at the face of the dead man and then covered his mouth with his hand; this was the man who had been dragged over the wall by the Orcs. He had been horribly tortured- his ears cut off, eyes gouged out. 

He felt Saeldir’s hand on his arm, steadying him. ‘His sacrifice means that other will not suffer this fate.’ Tindómion nodded; he knew this was true, that a victory by Sauron would mean that no elf was safe in Middle Earth and Orcs would flood the roads west to prevent them fleeing, those that would.

‘And poor Anguirel,’ Saeldir added. There, a little way beyond the line of dead elves, was the torn and bloody carcass of Anguirel. Tindómion crouched beside the horse, and drew his hands over its wide and staring eyes, trying to rid himself of the image of Anguirel struggling in the talons of the beast, blood gouged from his flanks…He could not. It would stay with him forever. And so it should, he told himself. 

As should the image of Gil’s beloved face, so still in death…

Even now… Even now amongst the blood, even now so many years later. Even now when his limbs and lust were still sated from Legolas Thranduillion who walked East into Mordor.

He pushed himself to his feet, used to the heaviness in his chest, used to the pain of loss and regret.

‘We will take them home now,’ Saeldir said quietly. He let his hand fall onto Tindómion’s shoulder.

Tindómion looked up in surprise. ‘Now? Will we not continue on to Mithlond?’ he asked. ‘Surely that is our task? To lure the Nazgûl away to the west.’

But Saeldir shook his head and looked down. He kicked an Orc’s arm out of his way, onto its chest with his uninjured foot

‘No. Our ruse is discovered. They nearly had Glorfindel.’ He wiped his mouth on his hand and Tindómion saw specks of blood when he took it away. ‘Had we not had help, they would have killed him.’ 

‘What do you mean?’ Tindómion rose swiftly to his feet and looked around him: Glorfindel was not there. Panic churned in his belly. ‘Where is he? What has happened?’ 

‘He was touched by a morgul blade.’ Saeldir paused to shift the crutch under his arm. 

‘A morgul blade?’ Tindómion stared aghast. He spun round in alarm and looked again towards the knot of men huddled near the most sheltered of the crumbled walls, and saw that there was a cloak cast over a man lying on the ground, long golden hair fluttered in the cold wind. 

‘Then is he lost?’’ cried Tindómion and he pushed forwards, anxiety leaping in his heart and belly.

‘No! No. He is resting,’ Saeldir reassured him quickly and lay a restraining hand on his arm. ‘He is alive and that is better than I expected.’ He sighed and then said, ‘Angmar crashed his beast into the tower and Glorfindel was caught beneath. Helpless. It was Angmar’s desire for cruelty that seems to have saved Glorfindel, for he was so very slow as he pierced Glorfindel. It meant that our help arrived in time to stop Angmar.’ Saeldir breathed deeply and then said more quietly. ‘Thank Elbereth, it was not too late. We pulled him back from the Shadow.’

Tindómion felt cold in his belly. Like stone.

‘Come. Elrohir must tell you part of this as well.’ Saeldir clasped his shoulder kindly and steered him towards Elrohir who had sunk back on the cold ground and was sitting, knees drawn up and shoulders hunched.

‘Gently with Elrohir,’ Saeldir cautioned as they approached. ‘He is weak from it. Remember how he was when Elrond had him help with Elladan.’ 

Tindómion nodded, and reached down to touch Elrohir lightly on his arm.

Looking up, Elrohir blinked almost owlishly,as if he were not quite awake. ‘Tindómion!’ His exclamation seemed half relieved and half anxious, guilty almost.

Saeldir was struggling to sit down and so Tindómion helped him to right himself and lay the crutch nearby. Sighing, Saeldir stretched out his leg. It was then that Tindómion saw the bloody bandage around his lower leg. More softly, more gently than he felt, Tindómion settled beside them and turned to Elrohir expectantly.

Elrohir looked exhausted. His eyes were half closed and dull and his mouth a thin, tight line. His hands were cupped around a tin mug with some athelas tea steaming its light fragrance. Tindómion’s head cleared a little and he saw things as they were: Elrohir had healed Glorfindel, called him back from the Shadow as Saeldir said. But he could not have done this on his own; he had needed Elrond to help him with Elladan. He peered at his friend more intently, feeling a growing anxiety in his chest. 

At that moment, Annael chose to join them. His steps were quick and light in spite of the blood smudged on his cheek. He had four bowls of soup in his hands and cleverly arranged along his arms.

‘Foul Beast Stew,’ he joked weakly, and handed a bowl to Tindómion. 

But Tindómion deliberately set his aside and leaned back, his eyes now upon Saeldir, expectant and cool. ‘Who is the stranger we saw with Elrohir a moment ago?’ he asked, narrowing his eyes suspiciously, and Saeldir shifted uncomfortably, his eyes darting towards Elrohir.

Unaware, Annael plonked himself next to Elrohir and took the cup from Elrohir’s hands, pushed a bowl into them instead.

‘You saw him?’ Annael’s eyes were shining. He took a mouthful of lembas as he spoke, crumbs dropped from his mouth as he spoke and he brushed them from his tunic. Saeldir gave a warning growl and Elrohir’s eyes were wide with alarm, but Annael was lost in admiration and too far gone to heed either of them. ‘The Mithlond Elves say it is Maglor and I for one, believe it. Did you not see how Eärendil shone upon him, Saeldir?’ he gushed. ‘And that armour could only be from the First Age. Was he not glorious? Just as my father described him to me when I was little.’ 

Tindómion’s heart pounded and his belly churned. He thought he might be sick. Maglor. Here?

‘Annael.’ Saeldir’s voice was low and warning. It cut through the miasma that seemed to descend upon Tindómion,fogged his thoughts so that all he could think of was that his father had been here, breathing the same air! And had not even paused, not even turned to look at him, not even stayed to give him one word! He felt his fists clench and his teeth ground. 

‘Galdor said it too,’ Annael sounded aggrieved now, looking at Saeldir accusingly. 

‘Annael!’

’It is not only me who says this. Some of the Mithlond warriors wanted to pursue him, to stop him but others wanted to speak to him, like me. Galdor would not let them. He said they owe him a blood debt now though others said he already owed it and there was still much to pay.’ He stuffed another wafer of lembas into his mouth.

‘Will you stop talking!’ Saeldir reached over and thumped Annael on the arm, gestured violently towards Tindómion who said nothing but closed his mouth tightly. 

Annael glanced up and suddenly stopped. 

‘Shit.’ He closed his eyes mortified. ‘I am a fool. Forgive me.’

But Tindómion had turned his face towards Elrohir, his face hard. ‘My father has been here?’

Elrohir did not speak for a moment and his face, already pale, was set.  
‘He told me his name was Vanwë.’ Elrohir pulled his cloak about his shoulders more tightly and turned away, his eyes blank so Tindómion knew he would get no more from Elrond’s son. And that angered him; Elrohir was supposed to be his friend.

‘When were you going to tell me this?’ he said accusingly and Elrohir blinked slowly and looked away. ‘What have I done to deserve this from you?’ he asked bitterly. ‘You know what I have sworn!’

‘Do not blame Elrohir for this. It is what I was trying to tell you. But properly. I was preparing you until this blithering fool crashed in like a cave troll!’ Saeldir glared at Annael who was shaking his head at himself in remorse.

Tindómion ignored him. ‘I have been your brother in all things,’ he said to Elrohir. ‘Even in your revenge for your mother.’ Elrohir turned his head away so that Tindómion could not see his face.

‘I am sorry. Tindómion! I did not think. I was so…’ Annael sighed and rung his hands. ‘Forgive me. Forgive me for a fool!’

‘You do not understand,’ Elrohir muttered and Tindómion felt rage churn in his belly. ‘He does.’ 

‘He understands? You mean that Maglor, kinslayer, helico, understands your revenge? How can you think he understands your rage at your mother’s rape? When he raped mine?’

Tindómion was on his feet and fists clenched, standing over Elrohir and glaring down at him.  
Saeldir struggled to his feet, grasping Tindómion’s sleeve and hauling him away before he leapt upon his erstwhile friend and pounded his face into a pulp! 

Tindómion leaned past Saeldir and down towards Elrohir. ‘Then it is the darkness he sees in you that is in his blood also,’ he snarled.

Elrohir looked up now, his eyes clear and fixed upon Tindómion. ‘Yes,’ he said. ‘Yes, he does indeed.’

Saeldir pushed himself between them now before Tindómion could speak again. ‘Ah, child, do you wish to spill his blood now, when he stopped Angmar from taking Glorfindel’s soul?’ Saeldir asked softly, speaking as he would to a frightened horse, soothingly, low. ‘I know what you have sworn. But there is a blood debt here. It must be paid before you take his.’

‘Blood debt!’ Tindómion spat. ‘That is an old notion. You do not hold with the Silvan traditions as a rule. Why now?’ he demanded, standing squarely to Saeldir. Imposing himself. 

Saeldir met his gaze head on and raised his chin. ‘Because he saved Glorfindel from the Shadow. That was a morgul blade. Without him, Glorfindel would be shadow.’ Saeldir took a breath. ‘Or worse. And we have already lost Rhawion.’

Tindómion’s heart pounded, his blood thundering through his veins and his own Oath burned in his heart. He had sworn to his mother he would revenge her though she begged him not. 

He threw himself away from Saeldir, pushing past Galdor who stared after him and ignored Annael’s startled call. He leapt over the crumbled walls and ran out into the woods, amongst the trees. Darkness cloaked him, wrapped about him like sorcery. Silence seemed to steal through the trees. Slowly all sounds dimmed and he knew he was utterly alone. The stranger, Vanwë, whatever he called himself, Maglor, was gone.

He strode away then angrily.

He wanted to shout Father! Traitor! Abuser! He would ride him down as he had sworn to do so long ago when first he discovered the truth of his engendering.

Instead he clenched his fists so hard he felt his joints crack. Glorfindel would have been lost. There was a blood-debt. And he knew this time, he could not pursue his father. But Elrohir…had betrayed him. He was no longer counted a friend.

He let out a cry of sheer frustration and slammed his fist against a tree. Even the sharp pain did not bring him back to himself, but Saeldir’s voice did.

‘It is not the time, my old friend.’ Softly spoken and gentle in its intent. 

Saeldir’s hand lay gently on his shoulder and though Tindómion wanted to throw it off and curse and swear, he did not. Instead he remained stiffly staring out into the woods, his eyes blazing a trail after the stranger. His father. His father. Coward! he threw out into the darkness.

‘Come back with me,’ Saeldir urged gently. ‘Glorfindel needs you.’

Tindómion gritted his teeth. At his hip lay Elennárë, the frost-bright blade that belonged to his maternal grandfather, and it thirsted for his own father’s blood. As did he.

He strode away and did not turn back when Saeldir called him. He needed to be alone for a moment, to settle his thoughts and his churning heart. There were no tears, not of anger nor sorrow, just the deep, deep bitterness of a Fëanorian’s revenge. Though he knew the irony, the pride that went deep in his blood of his House, and his hatred of the one whose blood he was most proud and most hated.

It was some time later that he was aware that another approached him. He did not move his head but knew it was Galdor. The Mithlond Elf did not seek to hide or creep but approached him head on, in the open and hands wide.

‘I come to bid you farewell, Tindómion Maglorion. Though that name has given me much grief, I see that it gives you as much, if not more. There is nothing I can do to ease that, though I would.’

‘It is my burden alone,’ Tindómion said resentfully. ‘And I do not need pity.’

‘You do not have it. My kin had none from yours.’

‘My kin?’

‘Your blood. Whether you wish it or no.’ He looked away, his lips thin and closed. Then he said, ‘I was once of Gondolin, though I am…much changed.’ He smiled at Tindómion’s incredulity. He looked away across the treetops, his eyes glazed with reminiscence.. ‘I knew your mother, Fanari.’

Tindómion barely moved but the breeze lifted his hair as he stood silent, listening. 

Galdor canted his head slightly. ‘Idril was not the only one to lead an escape. And Glorfindel not the only hero who stood against the Valarauki that day.’ Galdor’s eyes were very bright. ‘We refugees left in thin streams, in dribbles from the cracks in the city walls opened by the Valarauki, by the Urulóki’s fire. We scurried and skulked and hid from the ravaging fire.’

The thin crack of dawn was away in the East, the dark sky tinged with pink. Stars were thin pinpricks of light, gradually fading as the daylight crept over Eriador.

Galdor sighed and glanced at Tindómion. ’I did not see your mother again until many years later. In Sirion, where my family settled. Briefly.’

Ah. So there is was. Sirion. It was always Sirion. Bathed in blood. Fire and blood.

‘After Sirion fell, I went to Mithlond. I never saw Fanari again…And now, here are you.’

‘Here am I.’ But there was no heat now in the words. Self-pity was not something Tindómion indulged in and he thought now that perhaps he had a little. 

Galdor had the slightest smile on his lips then and he met Tindómion’s eyes with a gentleness that had no pity, not even compassion. Perhaps understanding. ‘It is not true that elves die of rape. And it is not true either that elves do not kill, rape, maim, hate. Those are tales told by the Holy.’ He said the last word with contempt. ‘By the Faithful. They are lies of course.’ He shifted his sword in his hip and Tindómion saw that the sheath was very fine, etched with a curling, arcing tree. ‘The Fëanorians are not the only ones to slay kin.’ He shrugged. ‘But history is convenient, is it not?’

He pulled his cloak about his shoulders. ‘Farewell Tindómion Maglorion Fëanorion. May the wind fill your sails and your ship bear you truly…’ He laughed shortly. ‘That is a Mithlond blessing,’ he said. ‘But if you wish a better one, may your sword and blood be strong. Kill many Orcs. And that is what Maedhros Fëanorion used to say. Bastard.’ He held out his hand to Tindómion who clasped it. ‘If ever you come to Mithlond, you are welcome in my home.’

He turned then and strode away between the fallen boulders and piles of rubble. His horse was turning and pacing restlessly as the Mithlond company had mounted and began to move off. There were calls of farewell from the Imladrian warriors and slowly the Mithlond company wound their way down the slopes and disappeared into the forest.

At last Tindómion turned towards the pointed spike that was all that remained of the watchtower. The muted sounds of the camp reached him and he let the breath go from him. His shoulders dropped and he bowed his head. 

Father…Traitor…Kin Slayer…Father.

 

0o0o

 

tbc

Notes: Go and read Spiced Wine’s extraordinary fics. Incredible. Passionate. Exciting. Damn hot.


	24. Epilogue

Notes   
Celebrimbor was the maker of the Rings, including Vilya. He is Maglor’s nephew and Fëanor’s grandson.

baur-ur: blood lust, the lust that takes hold when deep in slaughter.

*Nirnaeth Arnoediad – Battle of Unnumbered Tears, where Morgoth destroyed the Noldor forces, Fingon was killed, the Fëanorians routed. Turgon arrived unexpectedly with 10,000 men- there is nothing in Tolkien to suggest Glorfindel was there but it would have been odd if he hadn’t. I have assumed that the captains of Gondolin would have met/been greeted/welcomed by the captains of the Union and so Maglor would have greeted Glorfindel.

*Luthien stole a silmaril from Morgoth and gave it to her father. This led to the second kinslaying, and the third. The view of the Fëanorians is that the Silmarils were theirs and had been stolen in the first place- a bit like the Nazis stealing art work and then it being taken as plunder from the War, ending up in an art collection. Maglor feels it should have been returned, as should the other two when finally Morgoth was defeated.

 

Thanks, as always, to the very patient and generous Anarithilen, who gives her time so generously and for no reward except my thanks.

Also to those readers who kindly dropped me a line to encourage me and give feedback. I always appreciate that. 

And to Spiced Wine for her loan of the rather fabulous Tindómion, and her help and advice as always.

 

Chapter 24: Imladris

 

Moonlight gleamed on the white and grey horses crossing the borders of Imladris. As always, Elrohir felt the soft implosion in his ears, against his skin as they crossed the Ford and into Vilya’s protection. It was like a whisper of welcome, a brush of comfort against his sore heart. The litter bearing Glorfindel swung gently between two horses as they stepped through the cold Bruinen, so careful not to stumble and jar their precious burden. Around them the returning warriors and their horses surged across the ford and the water rippled silver in the moonlight. Annael led two horses with their pitiful burdens, Rothgalon and Lomion, and the returning warriors crowded around them protectively.

By the time the troop arrived at the House, lights had appeared in the windows and the stable hands were waiting. Women stood waiting anxiously, their arms crossed as if that would protect them from dreadful news, and craning their necks to see if their loved ones were amongst the living. From the barracks, a steady stream of warriors appeared, nodding a greeting, whispering quietly amongst themselves.

Elrohir let others take over; the linen-robed healers quickly took the wounded to the Healing wing, and others silently took the dead. The horses were led into the stables, their weary heads low. Saeldir’s wife was not the only one to break into a run and throw her arms about her husband, but others had already gathered about Rothgalon and Lomion’s families, murmuring softly. 

Elrohir watched in silence. He did not approach. He would not be welcome right now and he glanced surreptiously towards Tindómion, hoping for a moment of shared understanding. But the fire of Tindómion’s anger with Elrohir had dulled into a cold disdain and so Tindómion ignored him and strode quickly over the lawns towards the wing that housed Imladris’ captains. His tall figure leapt up the shallow stone steps as if fuelled by his anger, and disappeared into the shadows of the verandah that ran the length of the wing. 

Elrohir stood for a moment in the emptying courtyard. No one spoke to him and he would have ignored them if they had.

Then he followed his heart and went to the Healing Rooms, not for Glorfindel for Elrond would be there, but for Elladan.

He walked quietly along the smooth paved floors of the passageways, turned his head to look into the moonlit courtyard where a fountain splashed quietly into a pool. The Healing wing was designed and built around the courtyard, and the windows opened onto tranquility rather than the spectacular and majestic mountains. Ahead of him were lights and movement as the healers attended the newly arrived wounded. He knew Elrond would be there. Following the smooth stone passage, he continued on to the convalescence rooms where he had left Elladan. Here it was dark and silent. There were no others in this part of the wing and he pushed open the door to Elladan’s room.

In the still moonlight that streamed into the room from the open windowns, Elladan slept peacefully. His long lashes lay shadows against his warm cheek but they were the only shadows. Utter love, absolute relief heaved in Elrohir’s chest. Elladan was safe. Clear of the shadow. He leaned over his brother and brushed his long black hair away from his sleeping face. All the fatigue from his body eased and he felt that now he could rest.

At that moment, Elladan stirred slightly and his eyes moved under his lids, and then fluttered open. For a moment he stared uncomprehending and then his mouth opened with a cry of inexpressible joy and he grasped Elrohir’s arms, pulled his close and hugged him to his chest. ‘You are back! And safe.’

Elrohir laughed softly. ‘What is this?’ he smiled indulgently. ‘It is I who should be so pleased that you are recovered!’ He pulled away gently so he could look at his kind, gentler brother. ‘You are looking well,’ he observed with absolute relief, for the last time he had seen him Elladan lay still bewitched and deep in the sorcery of the morgul blade. 

‘I am much recovered,’ said Elladan and then his face became serious. ‘Thanks to you, my brother.’ He searched Elrohir’s eyes but Elrohir glanced away. He did not want Elladan to perceive the darkness in him. 

‘You offered yourself to Angmar to save me.’ Elladan clasped his shoulder and shook him slightly, and then said fondly, ‘Fool.’

‘They would have taken you into the Shadow. How could I let them?’ For a moment the cold touch of Angmar seemed to hover between them.

Do not let him see, he prayed. Do not let him know the darkness in me.

But then the calm blue that was Elladan suffused his own hurt and pain with cool peace, the ragged edges of his hurt were smoothed and knit. His breathing deepened and the shameful hurt dulled. He rested his head against his brother’s shoulder and pushed the dark lust down, shoved it deep into the shadows of his heart, and there it slithered and curled, coiled about itself to wait until it was awoken.

‘You are my better self,’ he said quietly. ‘I would die for you. You know that.’

Elladan pressed his fingers against his eyes in distress. ‘I do not ask it. Never. For I would rather you had lived. Do not do that again.’

‘I do not think I can swear to that,’ Elrohir said and glanced at his brother. ‘Unless you can swear it also?’

There was a pause and then their eyes met. An identical smile slid across their faces and Elladan laughed softly. ‘Fool!’ he said again.

And just like that, it was as it had always been, and all was eased between them. Elladan must have felt the same because he settled back onto his pillows and said, ‘Tell me what has been happening. Erestor told me of your foolhardy plan but only when you had been sighted returning. Until then he gave me some silly tale about you and Glorfindel taking a message to Bree.’ He shook his head slightly. ‘That man can lie! I almost believed him except Father was so distressed. I sense momentous events and have not been part of any of it!’

‘You are greedy,’ Elrohir smiled again, so pleased he was that Elladan was himself. ’I have just returned and had neither food nor drink nor rest and you want stories like a child.’

‘I am bored,’ agreed Elladan, making room for him. ‘But if you are tired, I will wait.’ 

Elrohir laughed, feeling his brother’s presence soothe him as no sleep could, so he settled beside him on the bed and leaned his head back against the pillows, alongside Elladan’s. He stretched out his legs and toed off his boots and wriggled his toes comfortably. 

He told Elladan how they had ridden out with Gildor, how they had lost one in the Warg attack and reassured Elladan that on their return the wounded warrior and horse had still been there and returned home with them. Then he told him of Amon Sûl, though he was modest on his own account, and focused on the deeds of others.

When he reached the part where the Nazgûl attacked and Glorfindel had been helpless beneath the fallen tower, he paused. Elladan’s fingers gripped the coverlet and his knuckles were white. Stealing a quick glance, Elrohir breathed slowly, considering. 

It hurt him to see Elladan like this and he thought briefly how it would have been had Angmar killed Elladan. No. Not killed. He would have devoured him, as the Nazgûl had Rhawion. Suddenly he could not bear it and his hand flew up to his chest and pressed against his heart.

‘What?’ Elladan stared at him in alarm. He struggled to sit upright. ‘Were you wounded? Did they strike you?’

‘No, no.’ Elrohir shook his head quickly. ‘It is nothing…just… ghosts. Phantasms. Just me.’

Elladan breathed a sigh and looked down. Then his grey eyes flicked up again at Elrohir’s face. ‘Just you?’ he said wryly and grasped his hand. ‘Do not fear on my account. I am well. Tell me all. I wish to know how you defeated the Witch King,’ he said.

Elrohir sighed and leaned his head against Elladan’s. He remembered the moment the rain had stopped and the thunder clouds tore apart to let the starlight and moonlight in; how one great winged reptile wheeled and swooped low, and the Nazgûl riding it tilted its empty hood to look down upon Elrohir where he stood.  
   
Rávëyon. Why do you fight?

He closed his eyes and felt the horror of Angmar touch him, brush against his thoughts, even now.

What can I do? Oh Eru, what can I do?

‘You are far away.’ The voice, beloved as it was, roused him from his darkness. ‘Was it so dreadful?’

‘Yes. It was.’ 

Elladan listened in attentive silence to rest of his tale until he came to the end. When he finished, Elladan said nothing at first and Elrohir thought he had fallen asleep.

But then he felt Elladan stir. ‘Maglor?’ His voice was heavy with skepticism. ‘How do you know it was him?’

‘It was him. He as good as told me.’ Elrohir saw in his mind the long black plume of horsehair that streamed behind Maglor, the helm that clasped his face like cupped hands. ‘He wore this armour,’ he said, lost in memory and wonder. ‘It was sinuous, like fish scales and glittered and shone like Eärendil itself. Fëanor himself must have made it,’ he realised. ‘Or Curufin.’ The thought made him shiver.

 

Elladan grunted sceptically. ‘That is hardly enough! What did he say to you?’ 

Elrohir remembered the stranger then, and the light touch of his fingers on Elrohir’s cheek, his acceptance, an acknowledgement of his blood. ‘He spoke of Elrond when he was young, as if he knew him well. And he called Glorfindel back from the Shadow of the morgul blade.’

‘Then he must be powerful indeed.’ 

‘He told me he had come from over the Sea but could never go back,’ Elrohir found he wanted to convince Elladan that it was indeed Maglor. 

‘He is not the only Fëanorian to survive Ost-in-Edhil, or to join the Wandering Companies.’

‘I asked him to come home with me, that Elrond would welcome him…He said he would not divide Imladris. He would not come with me. He made me promise…’

He felt the heaviness of his brother against him, his quiet breath. ‘It was Maglor, Elladan. When he saw Tindómion, he cried out. Do you know what he cried? Nelyo. As in Nelyafinwë Maitimo Fëanorian….who became known as Maedhros. He almost ran when he saw Tindómion! Why else would he leave so suddenly?’

‘I know who Nelyo is.’ Elladan said irritated, for he was better read than Elrohir even and loved the tales spun by Erestor, who still wore the Fëanorian star blazoned defiantly into his cloak, his boots and Elladan had sworn it was even stitched into his underclothes. 

Gently he probed the clear blue light that was Elladan and found the little piece torn by the morgul blade was mending, and the little silver glints of pain were deepening to the the familiar blue.  
   
‘Well,’ Elladan admitted grudgingly. ‘Since I was not there and you were, and you say he told you, perhaps this stranger is indeed Maglor.’ He was annoyed that he had missed such a thing, Elrohir knew and wished that Elladan had been at his side. ‘How did Tindómion react?’

Elrohir was silent for a moment; he was not proud that he had withheld the trust from his friend. ‘Vanwë –Maglor - made me promise not to speak and I was…not myself. I did not think. And then when Tindómion realised I knew and had not spoken of his father’s presence, he was angry with me.’

‘You cannot blame him,’ Elladan murmured. ‘His father, whom he once swore to kill, suddenly turns up and saves Glorfindel. And then he does not even stay to speak to him. And his friend does not tell him where he could expect you to.’ He looked up. ‘I do not judge you, Elrohir. Forgive me, but you can see Tindómion’s grievance.’

‘I can. And he has always stood by us,’ Elrohir said. He bowed his head. ‘He is still angry with me. I was not myself. I will find him and apologise tomorrow. I owe him much.’

‘It is true you are not yourself.’ Elladan pushed himself upright and stroked Elrohir’s hair away from his face, searched his eyes for signs of harm. ‘You hide from me,’ he said sadly. ‘You bury your pain too deep and repel all those who love you and would help. Even me.’ 

Elrohir could not speak; how could he tell his sweet brother what he had done, how he had stood and watched their mother’s rape, for Angmar’s spell had dug its claws deeply into him, twisted the memories and tainted every part of him. 

‘Please, Elladan,’ he said in quiet desperation. ‘Do not ask me. Just be here with me and never let me go.’

‘I will not ask you then. And you know I will be with you until the ending of the world. Have we not sworn?’ His grey eyes, clear as water, as unsullied, held Elrohir’s, cradled him with a tenderness that Elrohir felt he did not deserve but craved nonetheless. ‘It is as it has always been, Elrohir. You and me. Never will we be parted. I swear.’

He pulled Elrohir’s head back down onto his shoulder, and only then did Elrohir realize that this was his injured shoulder and yet it no longer hurt him. If Elladan can be healed, he thought desperately, then perhaps I too can atone for my sins somehow and be healed of my darkness. If I fight the Shadow with honour and protect the weak, if I pledge myself to the destruction of darkness, I will be saved. He leaned heavily against Elladan and before he knew it he had fallen asleep. 

Gently Elladan eased his exhausted brother onto the pillows. He straightened and rubbed his own shoulder where an ache had settled deep in the muscle and bone. Turning to lie on his side and facing Elrohir, he watched as his brother slept, and when the dreams were troubled and Elrohir murmured and his brows drew together as if in pain, Elladan let his calm blue peace ease over him and comfort him so he settled more deeply into sleep. 

 

0o0o0o

 

Hours later and in another room in the opposite wing of the Healing rooms, Glorfindel, still slightly dazed and dreaming, had been helped into a comforting and deeply-upholstered armchair placed before a crackling fire. Vaguely he recalled the white robed healers and attendants wanting him to stay in the bed but he had insisted he wanted to sit near the fire. A thick robe was tucked around him and blankets lay across his lap for he shivered still. Watching the fire crackle and burn, he let himself drift in and out of consciousness, knowing that he should not have escaped. Knowing that seconds later it would have been too late and he would have been pulled too far from his body to be recalled. He watched himself now, in memory, as he lay there helpless beneath the grinding rocks, crushed. His lungs had felt like they would burst and he had thought, for a moment, how unfair that he should die twice.

Half asleep, he thanked Manwë that Angmar had been too intent on his own sadistic pleasure and so the morgul blade had not pierced him deeply. And now Elrond had just left as exhausted as Glorfindel, having wielded Vilya’s restorative power like a blade to fight the last vestiges of sorcery that lingered still in Glorfindel’s fëa. 

Hands cupped around a pewter goblet, Glorfindel sipped the hot beverage in it that he was sure tasted horrible for there was a hefty slug of miruvor in it too. He still felt cold and every part of him was trembly and shivery. Weak. But he lived.

He drifted in and out of memory and consciousness…confused between the waking world and the past. He knew that upon Amon Sûl there had been a time when he was sitting up, much as he was now but rather than thick blankets tucked around him, there had been several cloaks around his shoulders. And where now he had a pewter goblet, it had been a tin mug that had been pushed into his hands, with athelas and willow-bark or something equally bitter. Miruvor too, as now, to dull the bitterness. And it had been Maglor, not Elrond, who called to him, who guided him back from the shadow. Maglor was the reason that Glorfindel had survived the Nazgûl… 

He remembered the moment he had opened his eyes and saw, with shock, and recognition who stood over him. The smile had the same heart-stopping brilliance that had met him on the battlefield which later became the Nirnaeth Arnoediad. The same deep eyes, mercurial, silver in the half light. Even more haunted now. 

A hand was on his shoulder, firm and purposeful and Maglor, Maglor! leaned down, smiled very gently and whispered softly, ‘You will live, Laurëfindë.’

Glorfindel closed his eyes and shook his head slightly, unbelieving. ‘It cannot be,’ he said. ‘You are lost.’

‘Not lost.’ A wry amusement in that rich and sonorous voice that had once made all of Tirion dance or swoon, had made the Valar weep. ‘I choose my path. Such as I am able.’ 

But to Glorfindel the words sounded desolate and lost. His tongue felt thick in his mouth and struggled over the words. ‘Come back to Imladris with me! There are those who would welcome you, and two at least who would weep on your breast at your return.’

Maglor’s mouth twisted into a grim smile. ‘As many as two?’ He met Glorfindel’s eye and said finally, as though he had given it much thought over the centuries, ‘My son is better off not knowing I am here.’ He lingered over the first two words as if he spoke them very rarely, and a world of emptiness seemed to open to Glorfindel such was the yearning in his voice. ‘It would divide Imladris if I came there.’

Glorfindel’s chest was sore, it hurt to breathe and yet he had to speak for he knew how this would break Elrond’s heart to know his father would not come. ‘Do you know how hard that will be for Elrond to hear this? He has lost his twin, his wife and now he faces the loss of his daughter.’ 

‘It grieves me to hear that.’ Maglor looked away. ‘But for his sake then, you must swear not to speak of this. He cannot know that I was here.’

Glorfindel clutched his sleeve as if to stop him from fleeing before he had tried again. ‘His sons have not yet made their Choice.’

Maglor glanced over to where Elrohir sat in shocked and stunned silence. ‘The Choice of Luthien?’ He gave a bitter snort for they had been led to despair by Luthien in many ways. ‘So favoured by the Valar.’

‘Some would not see it as favour,’ Glorfindel reprimanded gently. He breathed slowly, feeling the ache of his wound; he felt thin, stretched…as if his spirit has been pulled from his body and had not completely returned. As if he were watching himself from the side. ’And even if I give you my word that I will not speak of you, do you think these men will forget they have seen you?’ He gestured weakly towards the other warriors. 

‘Then I must trust you to do what you need to keep my child’s heart safe.’

But it was too late for that, thought Glorfindel. ‘I cannot swear to keep this from him. Even as I cannot keep from him the news of your brother.’ Sudden pain lanced through him, like an icy spear had pierced him and frozen his blood, though the morgul blade had not bitten deep and was gone. He placed his own hand against the linen dressing. It was spotted with blood. He wondered if he would have dissipated like Maedhros in the mirror had Angmar not fled. His face was numb and his tongue thick in his mouth, he found himself saying, ‘For I have seen him,’ he said, partly dreaming. 

Maglor had to lean right down to catch the words. He frowned and his lips parted in disbelief. ‘What do you mean, you have seen my brother?’’ His silver-grey eyes were narrow with something like rage, and something like despair. ’Why do you torment me? They have all gone.’

‘No.’ Glorfindel’s fingers plucked at his sleeve. His head swam in a miasma of aching and cold, but he had to tell Maglor. It was important, he knew and he owed Maglor this at least. ‘Celebrimbor left something…There is a Mirror…’ Glorfindel paused, trying to resolve his thoughts into coherence. But at that moment, there was a clatter of hooves; Tindómion rode in...And Maglor fled. 

Glorfindel gingerly set down his mug and because his hands still trembled, he almost missed the table, and the mug tipped over…liquid spilled across his fingers, dripped onto the table…

…The table. A stain spread upon the thick, rich rug beneath his feet. 

He was in an armchair now in front of a crackling, cheery fire. He blinked and looked over at the man sitting opposite….Not Maglor. Maglor does not have amber eyes that are narrow and long and like a wolf.

He felt himself being settled and a blanket drawn up around his shoulders. There was the sound of the cup being righted and the tea mopped up. A creak of leather as someone settled into the chair opposite him. Then blessed quiet.

He was dreaming. Drifting, he knew, in webbed shadows, in the dark place cut out by the morgul blade. A place of doubt and uncertainty. 

I am not as I seem, he thought with a measure of disgust, for he had once been as fair and true as any knight of Old. As Fingon. In Gondolin he had scorned the intrigue and politicking. Now was he not worse? A dissembler.

‘What in Morgoth’s name are you wittering on about, Glorfindel?’ Erestor’s voice was above him and irritable. ‘What do you mean you have forgot your purpose? What purpose?’ 

And all the strange thoughts scattered like cobwebs in the wind. Glorfindel let his head fall back against the pillow and breathed in deeply. Athelas. And camomile. Lavender as well.

‘Forgive me old friend,’ said Glorfindel thickly. ‘It has been hard to find my way out of these dreams…’

‘Of course,’ Erestor said crossly, without a trace of sympathy. ‘You have been resting all this way back from Amon Sûl, lazing in a litter like some great lady while your foot soldiers walked, or like Saeldir would rather limp back on his crutch rather than deprive you of a horse to carry your litter. And I have been waiting very patiently for you to wake up.’

Glorfindel, as always, simply waited while Erestor had his rant. He watched the firelight upon the wall instead, noticing how the red tinge flickered over the plaster, long fingers of shadows reached across the ceiling…

He was only aware that he had fallen into some dark reverie when Erestor revived him again, holding a goblet to his lips and cupping his head so he might sip the miruvor. The sweetness of the cordial flooded his mouth and his head cleared.

He knew he was not recovered. Not yet. But the lingering vestiges of Angmar’s wicked knife would not quite yield and he felt strangely insubstantial, wraith-like. Valar, had he come that close?

‘Yes.’ Erestor said, ‘You silly old fool, we almost lost you.’ His voice though, was fond, concerned. He reached out and stroked Glorfindel’s hair back from his face. ‘I have become quite fond of you for a stuck up Gondolodhrim.’

The word was shockingly made up and grammatically incorrect but Glorfindel lacked the energy for verbal sparring and besides, it was kindly meant. He blinked slowly and let his head roll to one side so that he could see Erestor more easily. His eyes, of course, were not really amber, but such a light brown as to appear so. They were long and narrow like a wolf’s though, thought Glorfindel and he took pleasure on smiling thinly, showing white teeth. He must practice, he thought.

He did so now. And then he sat back in the comfortable chair that had been pulled up alongside Glorfindel’s. He reached for a delicate glass goblet and guzzled the rest of the wine so that only dregs lay at the bottom. Then he leaned back in the chair and stared thoughtfully into the fire, a log shifted and crumbled into glowing cinders and ash, and the firelight glowed warmly on Erestor’s skin.

‘There has been a change,’ he said slowly, not looking away from the fire. ‘First Rhawion is….killed. Now they attempt to kill you. And before that Angmar tried to kill Frodo…Something is different. Not just the discovery of the Ring.’

Glorfindel could not speak. How close he had come, not just to death for he did not fear death, but to Shadow; Rhawion had been devoured…not just killed. His fëa had been consumed by the Nazgûl. And Glorfindel did not know truly what that meant.

‘Well Gandalf and company are far away from here now,’ Erestor continued, as if he were almost unaware of Glorfindel’s regard. ‘Your ruse worked- enough anyway, to give them a chance at least….The Nazgûl will be searching now but let us hope and trust that Mithrandir leads them on secret paths, unseen, unheard. And that they are not caught.’ 

Glorfindel let his head roll slightly to one side so he could see out of the windows. Even in the deep of winter, the heavy drapes were not pulled and he could see the mountains gleaming in the moonlight, cold and snow-covered. The snows had fallen heavily over the mountains so the passes must be blocked, he thought. Only Caradhras might yet be clear.

They both fell silent and all was quiet for a very long time. The orange glow from the fire was on his cheek and gleamed on the empty goblet dangling from Erestor’s long fingers. Glorfindel stared into the glowing embers. The candles had burned low and the wax dribbled in solid, fat columns over the burnished pewter candlestick. His eyelids dropped again.

Until Erestor asked, ‘So he was there?’ 

Glorfindel sighed. So much for the promise wrung from him. ‘You sound as if you already know,’ he observed drily. Evasively.

‘It is all the men can talk of.’

‘Ah.’

‘Is that all you have to say? Tindómion came to see me. He was upset with all of you, but most particularly Elrohir.’

Glorfindel wished he were strong enough to be up and about and not so easily cornered. 

‘They say he spoke to you long and in secret.’ Erestor persisted, he sounded like he was straining to hold in his emotion. ‘I would know what he said…And why he does not come to his foster son, who needs him and who has not seen him for many long years.’ The last words were carefully enunciated.

Erestor pushed himself to his feet and strode to the window, leaned one hand on the window jamb looking out over the snow. Glorfindel looked at the straight back and long black hair that was pulled back so severely from his face.

‘If Maglor were to come here,’ Glorfindel began, his voice sounding too quiet, alien to him, ‘he would tear the House apart.’ He knew now that Maglor had been right. It would do no good his coming here, no matter the comfort to Elrond.

Outside the window, snow had begun to fall, huge silent snowflakes drifting heavily.

‘He cannot come here,’ Glorfindel said softly. ‘You know that.’

‘Where has he gone?’

Glorfindel was quiet for a long time. Had he dared disturb the settled order of things by telling Maglor of the Mirror? Had he truly dared to set those feet upon the stairs to the Óromardë? 

‘I do not know…’ Glorfindel said hesitantly. ‘But.. I told him Celebrimbor had left a mirror…And I told him I had seen his brother.’ 

Glorfindel remembered the utter loneliness of those notes drifting in the Dark, the unbearable anguish of separation and thought what a cruel fate Námo had decreed for the first-born son of Fëanor, who had in truth done more to fight Morgoth than any other who had ever lived. 

‘I think he will go there,’ he said. I hope he will go there, he thought. ‘If he knows about Phellanthir. If not, he will start at Ost-in-Edhil but there is nothing there. He will work out where to go next.’

‘Each alone for countless years, one wandering the Earth, the other wandering in the Night. Fighting the Shadow, fighting the Dark… I hope they find each other,’ Erestor’s voice was quiet. He turned and poured deep red wine into the goblet in his hand goblet. He did not pour a second for Glorfindel. His eyes were closed as he drank deeply. Anyone else would seek to shut out the pain but Glorfindel knew his companion too well. He would revel in it, embrace it, wallow in it so he felt every twinge, every little prick. It was not in him to ignore it when he could punish himself for his beloved lords, seek in some small way to share their anguish with his own.

‘Ah, old friend.’ Glorfindel sighed. And could not find the words. 

So they sat silently, and outside the snow fell upon the secret Valley, covered the perfect lawns and rose gardens, fell upon the paths and the road that wound to the Ford of the Bruinen. It fell more heavily in the Mountains and the Wilds where now a small company began the long march through the foothills of Caradhras. Whilst in the ruins of Phellanthir, a footstep echoed through the empty halls and climbed the long, shallow staircase that led upwards into the gloomy desolation of the Óromardë. Shadows slid aside for this one, and the Nazgûl did not dare set foot again in that place. In the wreckage of the Óromardë, a warrior stood as if he had stepped straight from the First Age, and pressed his hand against the coated Glass. A single note sounded, like a deep bronze bell in the absolute silence and far, far off in the darkness silver-blue lights glimmered like a shoal of tiny fish.

 

0o0oo0

The End


End file.
